Tales of a Wanderer
by Carumati
Summary: HPLOTR. Harry was in an alien world, surrounded by talking trees and the legend of the Rings. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.
1. Adjusting to the World

Author's Note- All I have to say is, "plot bunnies- they're driving me crazy." I only have the first book of the Trilogy… that'll prove to be problematic if I choose to finish this story, which will be short, I think- a bit more drabble-esque than anything, with a whole lot of time jumps because, well, it's a plot bunny, and they're driving me crazy. Cheers.

Note- Harry won't be going through 'Cedric-angst'; it takes up too much writing room and minimum 'Sirius-angst'. Let's just say that Harry learned to come in terms with his losses, showing an unusual degree of maturity that, sadly, wasn't shown in the canon. Also, the family I mention isn't exactly OC as they made a few seconds appearance in the second movie, call it authorial power. So yeah, they are pretty vital to the story, please don't skip over them. Oh, and I don't own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter.

"_Speaking_"= English. '_Thoughts'_= English.

_&Speaking&_= Parseltongue.

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

_A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover_

**Tales of a Wanderer: Through Middle Earth**

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

Harry Potter lied on his back, trying to regain his bearings… He wasn't on his bed, this wasn't his room, this wasn't Surrey, and this wasn't Britain. Bloody hell, why does this always have to happen to _him_? '_I am Harry… just Harry…_' He sat up and rubbed his eyes, no glasses… no need for them either… strange. He touched his eyelids, puzzled, and then shrugged- now wasn't the time to worry about that. The holly wand was gone from his back pocket; instead, he found a long, softly glowing phoenix feather and rolled it in his hands, contemplating. Maybe the wood was destroyed on his 'trip' and only the wand core remained? How bizarre.

This place… right; first- examine the surroundings. All around were sounds of creaking and groaning of wood, a far cry from something like the Forbidden Forest. The forest he landed in was ancient, the trees were huge and they blocked out the sun so easily, that it felt like night… or it was night already and he had slept for more than a day… or that because he was not where he was suppose to be, probably it doesn't matter anyways.

He had… he struggled to remember. It was a typical summer day at his relatives', right after Fifth Year, feeling depression and guilt over Sirius's death in the Department of Mysteries. So he had spent his days in his room in a state of sloth. He went to sleep one night, like any other night, and woke up in a forest.

He reckons that the shock should be settling in soon.

A continuous charged feeling was rippling throughout the area, singing to something in his core. The feeling was familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it…

A low hoot interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, the boy-wizard couldn't believe his eyes, "_Hedwig?_" Tilting its head to the left, the snowy owl looked mildly insulted at his incredulity, flew down to his shoulder to cuff him with her wing. He patted her head, "_How did you get here girl?_" He mumbled, checking her for any injuries and found nothing out of the usual except for the fact that she was holding something, a flute.

The owl, sensing his curiosity, dutifully stuck out her leg and handed the instrument to him. It was a Christmas present that Hagrid gave him, hand carved, that saved his life from that dratted Fluffy in First Year. The summer after, Harry gave it to Hedwig as a trinket-gift, and though it was quite useless to an owl, she valued the thought behind the action. It looked roughly made; the wood was smooth but not even. He only knew the basics in playing the flute: it was like the recorder he had to play in music class (his teacher had supported some sort of neo-organum teaching style.) He squinted down at the sides, he hadn't noticed before, but there were little scratches of some letters from another language. They looked like the symbols that Hermione had to memorize in Ancient Runes.

"_Ancient Runes is an excellent class! It's not only another language, it's understanding how specific languages, root languages, dead languages, bring forth one's magic, and how these symbols call forth and control our own and ambient magic! Oh Harry, I wish that you were with me._" Hermione bemoaned to him when he spotted and asked about her homework after the First Task with the dragons.

Ambient magic… That's it! That's what probably cured his eyesight. This whole place feels like Hogwarts on a holiday, Halloween to be specific, where ambient magic is at its most concentrated. He looked around hopefully, if there's magic, there's magic people, hopefully a wizard village nearby where the locals can make him a portkey and send him to somewhere safe, maybe Diagon Alley. This whole fiasco is probably accidental magic (at age fifteen, how embarrassing). He breathed a sigh of relief, '_That's it, don't panic. Don't panic. Don't do magic for now, I don't need to be expelled from school…_'

He stood up and checked his pajama pockets; he had nothing but the clothes on his back: no shoes, no socks, and no wand. He dragged a hand through his hair, "_Let's go Hedwig_." She hooted back and dug her claws into his shoulder.

He had been walking for so long that his feet ached like hell. The sun barely poked through the canopy of the trees, sending the occasional green beam of light, filtered through the leaves, onto the forest floor. There were sounds of groaning of bending wood in the distance; he increased his pace in that direction.

'_If I'm so far from any sort of human civilization, the Trace shouldn't be able to detect me. Or was it that the Trace is on the wood, not the core…_' Harry twirled the feather in his hands, '_It's worth a try._' He held Fawkes' feather and pointed ahead at a fallen twig, '_swish and flick_', "_Wingardium Leviosa_!" He might have been imagining it, but if he thought about it, the feather might have turned warmer (from the heat of his hand) and the stick might have twitched (from a passing wind). A sense of horror and helplessness filled him as he stared at his results. In vain, he tried again, "_Wingardium Leviosa_! _Alerte Ascendere_! _Periculum_!"

No magic, he can't do magic… "_Shite_."

oOoOo

It's been a couple days since his arrival here. No search party had gone out to look for him, no signs of life; he found no food and no water. He felt faint. Which plants were edible? Which were poisonous? Nothing in Herbology could have prepared him for this. Harry leaned his head against a tree trunk and closed his eyes, his stomach growled angrily. Hedwig made daily trips into parts of the forest and always brought back a couple of small game for him. The woods here were too damp and therefore, no kindling for fire, everything had to be eaten raw. It was hard at first and he threw up his first mice a few minutes after he swallowed it, but he had to force the meat down, it was the only way he could survive.

He looked up at the snowy-owl on a branch above, "_Good girl_," he muttered, "_Where would I be without you?_" The owl blinked and glided down silently, landing on the tip of his foot and stared into his eyes. '_Heh, the Boy-Who-Lived died of starvation._' He smiled back and closed his eyes; just a few minutes of sleep won't hurt…

oOoOo

He was being carried by something hard and uneven and leaves brushed against his cheeks. Harry opened his eyes and saw that he was being carried by a… a… a tree, which/who seemed to be talking to him in a foreign language. …Words failed him. The tree had eyes and a nose and a mouth, half obscured by branches. His (Harry assumed that the tree was a male) language was full of slow rumbles, and switching sometimes to something utterly foreign to something that reminded him of singing. '_I wonder if there are such people who speak Arbortongue, like Parseltongue. Care of Magical Creatures never mentioned this._'

The tree handed him a half of a large nut shell, inside was filled with water. The wizard drank half of it in a greedy gulp before offering some to Hedwig, who politely declined. They were moving incredibly slowly, making soft 'thud… thud…' noises on the soft ground. In a clearing the tree passed other moving-trees; he recognized willow and hawthorn, all moving ever so slowly, without a care in the world. A smaller tree came up to them and handed him another 'cup' of water, calling him a word that he didn't quite catch.

And they moved on heading east. The leaves still covered the night sky, the air was cool and content, different from the horrible mugginess at Surrey on specific summer nights. Hedwig occasionally went off to hunt for food, but it was the tree who supplied Harry with fruits, nuts, and herbs. He wondered if this was like the feeling of being rocked to sleep…

The tree stopped at the edge of the forest, waking him up from his pleasant dreams. Gently, Harry was lowered to the ground. He looked up at the mighty expanse of the tree, bowed low, and spoke, even though he knew that he wouldn't be understood, yet hoped that his thanks would be conveyed, "_Thank you. I am forever in your debt_."

The tree rumbled in the unknown language and shifted back into the shadows of the forest. He heard that word again, that the trees had called him, "_Istari_."

oOoOo

Observing the cloudless sky, trying to recall what Professor Sinistra had said about the constellations. He looked northward and couldn't find Polaris. No Ursa Major, no Sirius, no Canopus, no Arcturus. Everything was alien to him. Panicking slightly, he tried to spy any other familiar patterns in the stars

"_Hedwig? I don't think we're on Earth anymore. I have no bloody clue as to where we are._" He got a hoot in response. Harry trudged up a nearby hill, feeling his hope of finding any human civilization rising; under the star light, he had spotted some vague prints on the dry grass that, to him, resembled horse prints.

Then again the horses could be a wild pack and he was just deluding himself, after all, after realizing that he might not even be on Earth anymore, he might be the only human. And even if people did ride horses here, it signifies that the nearest village might be more than a couple days walk from here. His stomach sank at the thought of minimal food and no water. The people there might not speak his language; they might be of the attack-first-questions-later sort. The trees were certainly nice to him and that set a good example to how the rest of the intelligent beings would be. Maybe what the trees spoke to him was a universal language: he wanted to know, it certainly was a beautiful vernacular, flowing very smoothly. It made him feel ashamed of English.

Well, he was a wizard, and wizards are known for their notorious survival instincts… '_Not true, sometimes it seems like only Slytherin has a healthy respect to life,_' a snide voice said in his mind.

On the top of the hill, he scanned the horizons… there! In the distance, small twinkling lights: natural phenomena, volcano, or village. Giving a small whoop to himself, he set down a straight path when- _&Halt! I forbid you to tread on me, human!&_ He paused in mid-step, almost tripping over in his surprise. The voice was a familiar hissing, not guttural like the basilisk, but younger, like the boa he had set loose in the zoo in before he went to Hogwarts. Looking under his shoe, he spotted a mid-sized, green snake staring up at his, coiled for an attack, _&I may not be poisonous but I will bite. Raise your foolish feet that I have not and I will return to my slumber.&_

He felt like kissing the serpent in relief as he knelt down to the animal's eye level, _&I can still understand you! &_

The snake uncoiled in shock, looking taken aback; Harry thought it did, for a snake, _&you…You speak my language!&_ It sputtered out, slithering forwards and scrutinizing him. _&I may not have lived long, but I know that humans such as the likes of you do not exist. Speak human…, or shall I call you, Wise One? Though no other Wise One I have seen ever deigned to converse with a creature such as I.&_ The wizard held out his arm and the snake obediently slid up to his shoulder, hissing contently in his ear, _&Thank you, Wise One, your warmth is comfortable very so.&_

He still can talk to snakes, nothing muggle can explain it. His magic still works, wherever he is! The ambient magic might have messed up his magical core… or it might be the fact that he lacked a wand. '_But…_' He stared mournfully at the phoenix feather.

_&May I offer my services, Wise One?&_ The snake rested on his head, eyeing Hedwig who claimed her perch on his shoulder warily, _&As long as your companion does not attack me, I would gladly aid you.&_

In the back of his mind, he wondered how his friends would react, seeing him like this: using a Dark ability. _&What can you do?&_Ron had been uneasy when he used Parseltongue when he opened the Chamber of Secrets and after that adventure, there had been a silent agreement between them that he won't use the ability anymore than necessary. If he hadn't agreed to those terms, he would've purchased a snake at Diagon Alley for his third year, he heard from the owner of the Magical Menagerie that some creatures were able to communicate between the species line. He didn't think that this snake would have that talent though.

_&I understand, Westron, Common Speech that you humans use! I can carry messages for you, slide around corners from anyone's notice; I patrol these lands and hear by the word of humans what lies beyond. I know some castle secrets and the rumors of the Rings.&_ The snake said proudly, _&For I am capable of intelligent thought, something very rare among my brood-mates. I even named myself and answer to the name- Arwen.&_

He pondered the idea, wondering if being a Parselmouth was considered Dark in these parts before shrugging, the good outweighed the bad, _&You are very smart indeed, Arwen.& _He praised the preening snake as Hedwig huffed jealously,_ & I answer to the name Harry Potter, you may call me Harry.&_ The snake hissed in serious acknowledgement, &_I wonder though,& _he said, as a thought entered his mind,_ &why do you call me, Wise One._&

_&Is that not what you are? You feel like one of them, those that dwell like humans but hold powers that I cannot fathom. I have only heard stories of them vanquishing the dark, overcoming foes with and without the sword.&_ Harry stood up and brushed himself as the snake chatted on, _&I am pleased to have met a Wise One such as yourself, since I heard that your numbers are very thin. Your age has passed and you are very young for a Wise One, Harry.&_

'_Arwen must mean Wizards, magical people.' &Do you know where I can find my kind?&_He asked as they treaded down the hill. _&I am not of this land, nor do I know the speech. You must guide me.&_

_&Unfortunately, I have only heard stories, particularly of Gandalf the Grey.&_ Arwen apologetically informed, _&I do not know much about the Wise Ones, as man rarely talks of them. It is the elves that sing their praises when they walk by, and I do not understand Sindarin, Elven-tongue.&_

He stopped in mid-step so abruptly that he almost launched Hedwig off. _&Elves?& _He asked dubiously, imagining Dobby and Winky worshipping the ground where Dumbledore walked.

_&Fairer beings than man, I can assure you. At least they do not outright kill my kind. But you, Harry, are fairer than them, because you are a Wise One.&_ The snake languidly informed as it burrowed itself under his shirt. Harry wasn't sure about that statement.

He mentally placed Dobby, Professor Dumbledore, and Uncle Vernon side by side. Above the three was a big sign, bolded red letters that asked, "_**Fairest?**_" It would certainly be interesting if Eris threw the Golden Apple at their feet.

oOoOo

_&She asks for your name.&_Arwen (now identified as a female snake) loftily informed from the haven of his pajama shirt. The woman was dressed in peasant clothing, hand sown and well-worn, and she had a kindly countenance about her that made him think of Mrs. Weasley.

The wizard and his two animals had managed to make it to the small village by dawn. The houses weren't built like they had modern technology, but from a combination of stone and wood. When they wandered through the streets, children were pulled to their mother's bosoms and men looked suspiciously at them, fingering knives and swords that were within reach at their belt. He listened with a sinking heart the whispers that were most definitely not English, but what Arwen said to be the Common Speech, something that the trees had spoken to him.

He eyed the buildings, wondering how he could get room and board and explain that he was willing to work diligently for food. It had been a long night, Hedwig and Arwen had both encouraged him to run to his destination as quickly as he can. Now, he could slump over in fatigue. Worst of all, he was still barefoot; his feet showed the marks of stones and plants that he had treaded upon, a wonder that he wasn't bleeding.

The woman in front of him apparently had taken pity, and he was very grateful for her choice to reach out to him. The woman had asked for his origins and his purpose for stepping in the village, questions which he tried to answer but could not. But then after introducing herself as Imiram, by placing her hand over her chest, she asked for his name. This he could do. "Harry." He said and repeated the gesture.

"Harry." The woman mimicked roughly, sounding more like, "Hah-RI."

A small boy, perhaps four, appeared behind the woman's skirt and tugged it insistently, pointing to his snowy owl and asking for something.

Harry couldn't understand, but apparently Hedwig did, as she suddenly glided down from the wizard's side and landed softly on the startled boy's shoulder. The boy raised a hand and petted the soft feathers, giggling as he got a hoot of contentment. The woman, who had tensed when Hedwig moved, relaxed again and laughed softly. Around them, the villagers realized that the newcomers meant no harm and went back to their businesses.

oOoOo

Imiram's son's name is Carin and her husband's, who had jovially greeted his guests after Imiram had explained the situation, is Patrix. There was another daughter, a year younger than Carin, whose name was Atricia. The family had accepted Arwen's presence, looking very surprised at the name of the snake, though they didn't say why. Harry thought that it was just the strangeness of the snake's intelligence. They had accepted his status as a Parselmouth and realized that through Arwen, they could teach Harry their language. Until he mastered Westron, the family stuck with "yes" or "no" answers, which were his first words of the language.

His jobs were to clean the house, cook foods, do some outdoor manual work with Patrix, like tending the horses, and delivering some packages using Hedwig. The family thought of him too frail to do any real farm work. The village was so rustic and simple; it had its own charm, despite the lack of electricity, air conditioning, and gas. Granted that Hogwarts didn't have those things too, but magic always did solve everything. The village, Rowin, generally kept to itself, only delivering the occasional message to the center capital of Rohan, Edoras.

He developed the reputation as the-person-there-who-keeps-the-kids-in-line. So most adults love him and they too accepted his ability to speak to snakes, as he had grouped together the local serpents and asked them to get rid of the vermin, mice, rats, and the like _(&You speak!&_One of them gave a snake-shriek among the dumb-founded group of hissers.). They eagerly, and sometimes overeagerly, obeyed him. The villagers had warned him through Arwen to keep his gift hidden from people outside, since snakes were apparently and unsurprisingly a symbol of evil. The occasional serpent would sometimes come up to him, to speak to him simply for the sake of speaking to him.

Other times, foreigners came from Edoras, and when that happens, the whole village comes together to not bring attention to the "Istari," wizard, or one of the Wise Ones: he had learned from his leg-less companion. When the foreigners come, he stayed outside with the hood of the cloak that Patrix had given to him as a gift over his head to hide his appearance. Arwen told him it had something to do with his appearance, something about him looking too elf-like.

At night, Imiram dutifully taught him Westron. His progress to grasp of the language was slow, but his eagerness made up for it. The Common Speech was new to him, like incantations that were derived from Latin, and like when he spoke Latin, Westron invoked a small amount of power to rise in him. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough for him to call forth his magic.

At least the lessons of the world he was in, Middle-Earth, were really interesting. Magical beings: Orcs and Trolls of Mordor, the Valar and Melkor, Elves and Dwarves, Hobbits and Ents, and rumors of the other sapient animals including a clan of spiders that would have done Aragog proud: were all commonplace in this world. The lessons were never in depth, but at least he knew that the different races existed. Middle-Earth was a strange place, but he was beginning to feel a fondness to it.

When he was with Patrix, the jovial man taught him how to hunt in the lands around them. After hearing his stint in the Forest of Fanghorn with the Ents, the elder taught him how to observe animal tracks, how to stalk and set traps, how to find water, how to build a shelter with the surrounding materials. Patrix seemed to sense the inevitability that he will leave the village, and was determined that Harry won't die due to his ignorance of the wilderness. As Harry regained his health, unlike how he was before he came to Rowin and during his time at the Dursleys (Dudley had went on a diet and Aunt Petunia thought that it was fair that everyone should starve, so his meager portions turned out to be even meager), Patrix tried to teach him some sword work. Atricia usually sat on the porch and clapped her hands as she watched. Like Westron, he had difficulty grasping the art.

On his times off of work, whenever he watched over the children, he practiced music with Hagrid's flute, the only thing besides Hedwig and Fawkes' feather that linked him back to his own world. At first, he had played simple songs by heart, allowing Carin's friends dance around by the streets. Later, out of boredom, he improvised, adding new rhythms and notes, new intervals and tempos, faster and slower, louder and softer, till the music began to vibrate and entrance. After he finished, he always noticed that the people around him looked more cheered and had an extra bounce in their step. Carin happily informed him that there were symbols on the flute that glowed.

Nothing in his magic texts mentioned music, strangely enough. Hermione probably knew something about the topic, but she wasn't here anymore. He came to appreciate the diversity of the art. With it, he could express his thoughts and feelings. Whole stories can be enacted with the right musical score. Music evokes emotions from the deepest, hidden hearts.

Likewise, magic was always about willpower and intent. The flute could be his new channel, like a wand, through the concentrated amounts of ambient magic. And so he experimented, different combinations seemed to order different things, but he had to have intent at the same time. Rhythm and dynamics and phrasings paired with his emotions and will influenced the power of his spells. The actual length and notes and patterns determined the spell. Underneath, there was a certain feel to it; one has to reach the exact feeling to achieve the results. So far, he knew a musical version of the Cheering Charm and was trying to master the Hover Charm.

The villagers were ecstatic when he showed it to him. (His household jobs were traded to lifting heavy loads with magic.) Nowadays, beautiful tunes almost always drift through the streets; Harry turned into Rowin's biggest secret.

oOoOo

Almost a year had passed in this state of bliss and contentment before one day; he woke up from his bed and felt stir-crazy. He stared at the ceiling and around at his well-furnished room of the attic. '_Why am I still here?_' Harry asked himself. '_Shouldn't I find a way to get back home?_' Probably, but this place was a haven to him, sure he missed his friends, his godfather, Remus, and grudgingly, the teachers, but here, he had a father, a mother, a little brother, a little sister, and a whole new set of people who appreciated him, not as the Boy-Who-Lived, for they knew nothing about any Dark Lord Voldemort (Just someone named Sauron), but as Harry Potter, or just Harry.

But he knew that it was time to go, he had gotten too used to the illusion of safety. He had to go back to his world and he knew who to try to contact, the other wizards. The boy wizard rubbed at his face, still unused to his lack of glasses, and looked up to his two companions.

He suspect the two are his familiars, due to his ability to communicate to Hedwig without speaking, his ability to feel Arwen's presence, and the new development where the snake and the owl could talk to each other without his help. Hermione had once informed him about familiars, "_Well obviously Dumbledore's familiar is Fawkes, showing that his heart is of the Light. Most wizards and witches have regular household pets who bonds with the entire family. Others have really unusual familiars, like Slytherin's basilisk. Powerful wizards and witches have more than one familiar, like Merlin. But more likely, the theory is that it all depends on how attuned to nature one is. Druids have familiars that are a whole family of animals, an entire species, who come at his or her beck and call to aid in some way or fashion_."

"_So what is their purpose?_" Ron asked while stabbing his meat with a fork. "_I don't think Errol is bonded to the family, neither is Pig._"

Here, Hermione scrunched her nose, "_It's not how long you keep them, its how closely you are bonded to them. People-animal relations, even in the Muggleworld, can be very close. I understand Crookshanks very well. I think Harry's familiar is Hedwig, or at least, is about to be."_ She looked over to her other friend, "_from what you told me. It takes time and understanding, but when the bond finalizes, you express your thoughts without talking, you have a lifelong companion. About half of the Wizarding population has incomplete familiar bonds._"

Harry shook himself out of his daze, feeling, not for the first time, a sense of home-sickness, and wiggled out of his covers. Allowing his companions to sleep, he padded softly to the quaint kitchen where Imiram was making breakfast and Atricia was giggling at the end of the table. The woman turned around and stared at Harry for a long time… causing the wizard to shift uncomfortably. She smiled sadly and said, "I knew that this would happen sooner or later, I had hoped that it wouldn't before a while." Harry nodded, able to pick up enough words to catch her general meaning. "It's time for you to leave, isn't it?"

"Yes."

oOoOo

The villagers had told him that whenever he was in the presence of others, to try and over his features with the cloak's hood. He heeded the advice and wandered through the lands, generally keeping his distance from any human being. He knew that he was really lucky to have found a place like Rowin, he didn't want to try his luck again. His familiars were reluctant to go but agreed that he had to get back home, this world isn't his. The local snakes bewailed his exit, startling some of the children from the consistent hissing.

His adopted family had helped him pack a couple of necessities, a sword, a knife, a carving tool, some money, and tearfully bided him farewell. He hugged and kissed every one of them, promising that he would return if he failed in his search home and that they would always have a special place in his heart.

The villages he entered were larger and more used to mysterious foreigners that passed by. Generally, he stayed at pubs, drinking water and asking for Gandalf the Grey as casually as he can. People around him looked at his hidden face with curiosity, usually whispering about that "Ranger with the white bird". Rumors are that the Istari is visiting the elves and doing his mysterious business, ever so slowly making his way to the North-western lands of the small people, "Hobbits" or "Halflings."

His grasp of Westron was still sketchy at best. He could ask questions decently and spit out a very short answer, but can't hold a conversation at all. Thank Merlin for Arwen, who he was sure to hide out of sight.

He drank his water from a mug that was usually used to fill with beer, tasting the alcohol that hasn't been properly cleaned off, bit his bottom lip as he thought. During his stay at Rowin, he had taken wood from different trees and carved a small tube into every one of them, then stuffed Fawkes' feather down the tube and tried to test it. Some of the woods were better than others, but the wood wasn't right. He tried so many trees that he began to feel guilty for abusing the trees, since he still owed the Ents for their help, and for his feather, which was so worn out that it was a wonder that he was still able to use it. '_Is it the wood or is it the wood's origins?_' The wood of the wand would need to come from a place with more ambient magic, he finally decided, but where can he find such a place?

'_The issue isn't important now. My priority is to find Gandalf the Grey, if I can get back to my world, a quick trip to Ollivanders should solve the problem._' The wizard sighed and absentmindedly ran a finger along the rim of the mug as a brawl broke out in the pub, over the owner's protest.

And he pondered, as people hit each other with fists, clubs, feet, and glass, (fights always seem to take the extra-care to avoid him) about many things: of the Istari's magic and whether its different from his, of the elves and their rumored fairness, of the land of Mordor that was making people uneasy, the realm of Gondor… The bartender looked at him worriedly, polishing a glass, "Are you alright there, son?"

He blinked and processed the words, "I'm fine sir, thank you."

The bartender gave a small hollow laugh as more punches and raucous laughter occurred in his establishment, "Just thought that you ought to know, there's word of a young man wandering around the lands of Rohan, flitting from settlement to settlement with a cloak and a white owl on his shoulder. The young one never shows his face and all one can see are two glowing green eyes. He never acquaints himself to anyone and always asks for water at the bars. Travelers see him outside the settlements playing a flute and when they hear the melody, they feel joyful, and things, stones and branches, begin to float around the man, who they believe is an Istari. But when he returns to the pubs, no one dares to question him."

Harry blinked again and waited as Arwen hissed the translation in his shirt. He wasn't aware that he was so… talked about, even when he doesn't try; he somehow becomes the center of attention. '_Is it something I'm doing wrong?_' He thought despairingly as Hedwig hooted in amusement. It was true though; he had been practicing his magic from, or so he thought, prying eyes. He had mastered the Hover charm so thoroughly that it coincides with any sort of Locomotor Spell and all the branching spells underneath (Banishing, Summoning, Lifting, Moving) and could be used as a defensive technique if he should get ambushed on his travels.

Now he was dead set on trying to find the correct music for the Aquamenti Charm because, frankly, it was ridiculous that his money was being used up for something as normal as water, which people here charge their customers if they don't buy anything else. Patrix had taught him a couple tricks to find and purify water, but it just wasn't enough to quench his thirst, and he found himself drifting back to the pubs. But his results, to his frustration, weren't succeeding. '_Maybe I'm doing it wrong, instead of conjuring it out of thin air; I can extract it from the air. Since the Aquamenti Charm is where water comes out of the wand, it won't work since I have a flute…_' And then he realized that the bartender was still expecting an answer from him.

"Interesting story." He said with a shrug and downed his drink as the bartender rolled his eyes. He wonders what the date is, seeing as they follow the twelve month per year schedule and that Arwen mentions the same months from his world, January through December. (It makes him speculate whether this isn't another planet but an alternate dimension.) His birthday should've passed by now, he's seventeen.

He feels guilt and everyday, before going to sleep under the sky, he tries to send his love to his friends at home. He missed everyone there. He missed Hogwarts terribly. And sometimes, he prays for their forgiveness, because everyday he stays here is a day that his memories dim, bright faces turn monochrome and blur together and slowly, against his will, he forgets. He tries to survive in a world so different from his own, gathering more information about Istari and Gandalf the Grey's whereabouts, having no desire to go village-hopping if he can. Another year, spring, summer, fall, winter, had passed and then another year after that; Harry mastered the Aquamenti Spell and the manipulation of water in its liquid form; he is nineteen years old.

(If he gets back home, he's going to give Hagrid a full-grown dragon as a thank-you gift.) His repertoire of spells grows at a steady rate. He learned how to influence the moods of those around him, how to gather magic into a single concentrated point to use, how to conjure fire for dinner, how to create a magical shield from attacks, how to turn water into air and ice, and back again. He worked on his basic transfiguration, little rocks into insects, but he admits that it needs work. He keeps his flute clean, making sure that the rune carvings don't rub away, and treat it as his new wand.

Because he had given up using the phoenix feather any longer, having attempted to recreate his wand from wood from the Forest of Fanghorn (he met no Ents) and receiving unsatisfactory results. But he kept the feather close to him, because it reminds him of what he used to be, once upon a time.

oOoOo

_&I heard of none of the non-humans you asked about except for dwarves. Though I know that evil creatures live in the land of Mordor, Orcs and the like- ugly beings, you wouldn't want to meet one.& _Arwen said, curling comfortably at Hedwig's feet.

_&So what about the dwarves?&_ Harry asked.

Arwen faltered, _&I don't know them personally, per say, just that they are not on good terms with the elves and that they appear in a rhyme of lore&_ which she recited-

_&__Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.&_

After a few moments of pensive silence, the snake continued, flicking her tail,_ &The quaint town we stayed in is ignorant of the events in the outside world, I think, which is why you weren't informed. The poem is extremely well-known in the world of Man, almost acting as a song to sing children to sleep. I heard, from my days in the field, that the Rings will rise up again soon, very soon. But that, so far, is merely talk.&_

It all sounded terribly foreboding to the wizard, who kicked a small piece of stone, contemplating. This all seemed to spell out war, judging if the rumors of Mordor are right, that troops are gathering. The fates must be laughing at him right now, he shook the metaphorical finger at them and looked north, north is where, by a forest named Lorien resides, a tributary off the Anduin called Glanduin runs through the mountain, a pass where he can get to the west side of the mountains where Gandalf the Grey dwelled.

Harry admitted to himself that he had dragged the process out as long as possible- where one half demanded to go home, the other insisted on staying and going back to Rowin, no Voldemort, no Dursleys, no one to try and control him.

Yes, control him; the Light side had tried to control him. He had realized slowly, at a steady rate, so he knew that it was not because of this realm, Middle Earth as it was called, that his head was becoming clearer. He could think: his mind broke free of bonds that he couldn't see after years of neglected maintenance. The bonds and barriers felt like Dumbledore, and with a more lucid and angry mind, he replayed everything from the beginning- Hagrid's Arrival, the Weasleys at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, the horrible protection surrounding the Philosopher's Stone… Each year was a test, he was being manipulated.

Of course now the Light side had a reason for all this, some bloody prophecy that looks like it was never going to be fulfilled at the rate he was going.

Harry sat down on the grass as Hedwig groomed him and rested his elbows on his knees. See why he doesn't want to go to that place? That place where Hell was paved with Dumbledore's good intentions. '_But for everyone else,_' he thought, '_I'm doing this for everyone else. And then… maybe I'll say goodbye and return here, after Voldemort's destroyed._' It was a good thought, but he didn't know if it'll come true or not.

Sometimes, he just wants to go home to people he can relate to, back where he belongs. And then again, he was perfectly content staying here. He had two warring halves, fighting one another in a never-ending battle.

It took an off-handed comment from Arwen (_&You don't seem to form wrinkles in your skin&_), a bowl of water, and four years to realize that the abundance in ambient magic made him age slower than if he stayed in his own world. He stared at his reflection and touched it, it rippled. He ranked the epiphany up there, right next to the realization that Hedwig was actually as old as his biological mother.

He could pass as a sixteen year old, barely. Just barely.

Harry suspected that the magic around him would continually slow down the aging process. He wondered how long he'll live; maybe he'll break Dumbledore's record of around One hundred and fifty… It was a thought.

If this is how the rest of his life would be… Harry thinks of himself now as 'not normal'. Despite all the years, his grasp on Westron haven't improved much, making him rely much on Arwen. He placed the fault at his inability to mingle with the rest of the humans.

He couldn't get along with them; there was an unexplainable rift between them.

He entered the forests of Lorien, feeling the magic that was as abundant as when he was with the Ents. So unlike Rowin, the magic around Rowin was scattered and only the music of the flute could gather the power together. Elves dwelled in the forests and if he could, if not for the fact that forests always hold more animals, food, than the open grass plains, he would've avoided them all-together. _"I hope they're friendly_," He muttered as he rubbed Fawkes' feather, for good luck.

oOoOo

He wandered for days, looking for the river at the west side of the woods. The forest seemed sentient, whispering and greeting him by brushing their branches before him. Hedwig flew, this time weaving around the trees, the message she gave made him wary, and there were people nearby. Are they the elves? "Hello?" No reply, he looked around, not feeling safe enough to drop his guard, "I… uh… mean no harm…" Arwen stayed silent, but shifted restlessly against his skin, causing him to squirm. He made his way northwest, ears pealed for any sound of water. He ran a hand through his hair and touched his eyes, adjusting non-existent glasses and pulling his hood even more to cover his face; old habits die hard.

And then it happened. It was almost like his experience of being possessed by Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries when a presence entered his head… Wait, it was more like looking through Nagini's eyes as she attacked Mr. Weasley. It hurts; there was too much pressure, no sound, just pressure that weighed him down. Arwen poked out of his shirt, hissing curses and trying to console him. Hedwig flew around him, agitated. He tried to resist the intrusion in his head, but the force was so old and powerful… He fell onto his knees and doubled over, clenching his head and opening his mouth to give a silent scream.

He saw a tall woman in white, so beautiful that nothing can compare, she had long blond hair that ran down her back and her face showed wisdom beyond the years, or millennia, staring down into a mirror. But she was in his mind, an intrusion that he can't forgive. Snape's Occlumency lessons rushed back with full force, "_Clear your mind, Potter! Blank it out and then push the perpetrator, you nitwit!_"

But he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't…

The woman looked up and her eyes widened. He took out his flue and held it to his lips, A#, and blew as hard as he could, '_Protego! Protego! Protego! Protego!"_

The shrill musical note of magic pushed the woman away; she collapsed to the ground… Pulled violently back into his own body, he balanced himself on all fours; his hands clenched at the grass and ripped some away from their roots. He was sweating and he shut his eyes, gasping and trying to recover from the pain. Arwen still was silent; Hedwig handed on his shoulder and stared at him. He'll be fine. It's nothing some rest couldn't heal, he hopes at least.

The forest whispered unease, the birds that had chirped in the distance had flown away, the air got colder. He stumbled up and staggered, he had to get out of here. The woman he saw will be found, she will talk about somebody harming her, she was powerful, probably a leader, her subordinates will be after his blood. His sixth sense, the one that had ensured his survival since he stepped into the magical world, started to haywire, not a good sign at all. "_Get out of the forest_," he mumbled to himself, reaching out a hand, groping for a tree trunk, the other hand clenched at the phoenix feather that glowed softly and calmed his mind…

"Halt, in the name of the Lady!" He heard multiple sounds of bending wood and groaned as he turned around with his hands in the air in open surrender.

He sighed as Arwen translated, "I'm sorry of what I did." He said tiredly, in broken Westron, "But she invaded my head and according to …" He looked up and was completely gob smacked. He was surrounded by five archers, all aiming at his head. They were all tall, dressed in medieval tunics of forest colors, and all looked beautiful, much like his previous vision, with long blonde hair and grey eyes and… pointy ears. The woman was an elf leader! Damn it, why do these things always happen to him?

"You attacked her! What have you done, evil being?" One of them cried, eyes narrowing and letting an arrow fly. He threw himself to the ground; the arrow grazed the tips of his hair.

"Brother! What are you doing? We need to bring him alive!" Someone shouted as he wiped dirt from his face and adjusted his hood.

Arwen hissed and he stammered, fisting the hems of his hood, "No! No! It's all a mistake! I wanted to find Gandalf the Grey and…" His eyes glowed in fury at the memory of the intrusion and pointed accusingly, "and she deserves it!" And then he yelled in English, "_What kind being goes around stomping through other people's minds without permission, you bastards_?" Wrong thing to say, as the elves tightened their hold on their bows, he knew that he had precious seconds to act.

Screw Gryffindor courage, he scrambled to his feet and ran, whipping out his flute and playing a short and precise tune. Two elves were thrown to the side by an invisible force, that set the signal and a flurry of arrows and throwing knives flew down. He ran and ran and ran, Hedwig screeched above, leading the way to what she believed to be an exit. The wizard looked behind him, still being followed! He cursed aloud and brought the flute again to his lips.

'_Protego! Wingardium Leviosa!_' He floated some stones and banished them to his pursuers… and heard a solid 'thud.' He turned around and ran, this time aiming the throwing knives back to them with relative amount of accuracy. There were more shouts behind him, but he didn't care enough to listen to them.

'_I must have a death wish_.' His mind wailed, _'Bloody hell, I'm being chased by a clan of Malfoys!_'

And he ran and ran, legs burning from the sudden strenuous activity. But he refused to stop and slow down as it would spell certain death. Merlin! He didn't realize how barbaric these elves were, a clear contrast from the stories that were nature and peace lovers and appreciators of good things. They never talked about the elves' thirst for vengeance; it wasn't like it was his fault to begin with. He continued to fling objects back at them to slow their pace and played a melancholic tune that makes the listeners feel hopeless and sorrowful.

(They called him "Istari.")

_&Harry!&_Arwen cried, _&The river called Glanduin, I sense it ahead. Turn left! Turn left! The edge of the woods is near, we have hope!&_

But his hope was dwindling, as he realized that the elves haven't tired yet and that his own stamina was about to fail him. He was concentrating too much on maintaining a steady breathing rate to manipulate the magic with his flute. The river and the edge of the forest were still at a good sized run away and he was going to give out at any moment. The elves were still yelling at him, but Arwen was too addled-brained to tell him what they said. Pulling a final sprint, Harry bent his head and ordered his legs to give it their all.

He heard the telltale sound of tightening bowstrings and closed his eyes and hoped and hoped and hoped…

He felt being pulled through a tunnel, squeezed and distorted…

oOoOo

At the foot of the mountains, Harry Potter gasped for breath, wheezing for all he was worth. He collapsed, spread eagled on his stomach, gasping. '_It settles it, all elves are barking mad. I must have apparated, explains why I'm still alive, thank Merlin for accidental magic._' Groaning, he rolled himself onto his back and stared up at the sky, lips cracked open to give a feeble croak of laughter. Hedwig sat on an alcove, hooting softly. Arwen babbled in fright about death and arrows. He wiped off the sweat from his forehead and rubbed the back of his neck, massaging his back muscles. He slowly stood up, walked around a boulder a couple of times, cooling his body from the excitement, stretching. Adrenaline still rushed in his veins; he was in a state of mind to run around and yell out in victory of escaping death by the skin of his teeth.

But he felt wrong, he felt something missing… and so he checked his pockets… and double checked them… and then triple checked them… and then gave his body a complete pat down. A stone dropped in his stomach, he felt horror.

He lost Fawkes' feather, having dropped it when he ducked under the first arrow. The feather, one of his tenuous bonds to his home world, was gone.


	2. World Pieced Together

Author's Note- … Holy… Holy that's an effing lot of reviews. No pressure… right. (I'm utterly stunned, thanks!) But don't count on good quality, please give me low standards so you may be pleasantly surprised, this was suppose to be lighthearted.

Note- I don't own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter. And I don't know any British cussing. And though I'm not religious in the sense that most people think, I admire the big Bible of the Middle Earth. Some lines were taken directly from _The Fellowship._ Yeah, I took off the Animagus plot line- too many holes. Still debating over romance, now I'm only thirty percent sure of its existence.

"_Speaking_"= English. '_Thoughts'_= English.

_&Speaking&_= Parseltongue

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

_A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover_

**Tales of a Wanderer: World Pieced Together**

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

'_Every one of those blond gits can go and…_' The Boy-Who-Lived wrapped the cloak tighter around his frail body and gritted his teeth to stop the inane chattering. '_-Shove their arrow points up their arses_.' He wasn't the type to curse, Ron was, and so for him, this proved that he was on a dangerously short fuse. Arwen couldn't handle the low temperatures and had buried herself near his collar bone and stayed silent. Hedwig flew ahead to scout and to occasionally fly back, flapping in that awkward way that told him that the path ahead was too dangerous for him to walk.

Hints on survival for travelers in the South were aplenty- keep to the mountains where the monsters loath to dwell, stay away from bodies of water, tread softly but don't stop. And these Harry took quite seriously, especially when word came that ordinary messengers were disappearing at an alarming rate off the North-South Road. No need to worry there, the path was in the completely opposite direction of where he wanted to go.

But the advice was easier said than done: the mountains had an abysmal amount of game and fostered its own type of dangers. With personification, he swore that the weather could bite and kill; and while there weren't any monsters out in the open, he knew that they were in the shelters that travelers usually stay in. The deep lacerations on his calf, bounded up by ripped pieces of cloth, were proofs of that. And the mountains held something bad inside; it was as if the heart of them was corrupted with dark magic, not one of the wizards but supernatural, almost god-like… His intuition confused him.

He reckoned that if he keeps his way North, sooner or later he'll bump into the Bruinen River or the Metheithel River, which passes the East-West Road, which leads to the Shire, the dwelling of the Halflings, where the Grey Wizard was suppose to be, where the Grey Wizard had better be. It was a brilliant plan before the elves drove him out of the forest so quickly that he somehow lost his pack, '_Bloody blond gits.'_

Hedwig circled twice clockwise: shelter was nearby. He increased his pace, ignoring Arwen's sleepy hiss requesting that he walk more smoothly, shivering as another biting wind swept by, chilling his bones and causing his hands to twitch spastically.

Freak weather, how could it be warm and toasty down in Rohan but frigid in the mountains…? Granted it was the Misty Mountains but he wasn't even at the proper altitude. The Snowy Owl landed on his shoulder and hooted softly as he ducked his head and peeked in. The cave was low hanging and it smelled of rotten sticks, but as far as the eye can see in the darkness, no man-eating animals. He eyed it distastefully and forced him self to think happy thoughts… at least it's bigger than his cupboard?

Inside the hovel, he kicked aside a few leaves and cleared a small patch for where he can lay on his back. Feeling ridiculous and something like those mummies in Egypt that Bill Weasley had once described to him, he turned to his side to stare out into the blizzard. The snowflakes that had somehow stuck to his eyelashes were beginning to melt. Under the cloak, Harry fingered his flute to an unheard tune, not feeling the mood to blow out the notes. He was legally an adult and he still didn't have the foresight to develop any heating charms! Any fire he conjured up would instantly sizzle out, too damp, too soaked, too cold, and too dangerous now that he thought about it.

Eyes fluttered shut as he thought, '_Day seven of __Hithaeglir__. How much more can I take?_'

Fawkes' feather had helped him more than he realized, like a phoenix, it had given him hope and warmth, a bit of joy in his heart, and that extra push that most wizards needed to keep going on the times of trials and tribulations. Without it, there's emptiness and… no hope. Exhaustion overtook him as he fell into darkness.

He dreamt of a land that the sun does not dare to light upon, where the citizens are monsters, ugly they are outside as they are inside, as they forged weapons. At a high tower, in a small chamber, an old man in white robes faced his contemporary in tattered grey robes. At the edges of Fanghorn, trees groaned as they are butchered by monsters with ropes and axes, falling into a pit of fire.

He dreamt of a land far darker and sinister; there was a looming mountain in the distance, a sense of finality. Another dark tower with two points jutting upwards held an all-seeing eye, remnants of an evil that was almost destroyed, that moved, looking for something and there are whispers of a tantalizing… A crafted, golden ring, aesthetically beautiful in its simplicity and malice, the One Ring…. It spins slowly, hypnotizing, the inscriptions on the artifact glow…

**Ash nazg durbatul****û****k, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul****û****k, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.**

He woke up screaming.

oOoOo

As Harry walked alongside the Bruinen River, noises of hoof beats and shouts filtered through the trees made him perk up in excitement. It has been a long time since he had any human contact; this will be an excellent time to ask for directions. After two weeks in the mountains, he was eager to get to some unfrozen rivers and green leaves.

Hedwig flew off in the direction of the commotion, not bothering to wait for him as he craned his neck upward and sniffed, marveling at the fresh scents that were so different from the stale and bitter air of the mountains. There was dirt and earth, fresh rain in the distance, sweat, and something distinctly foul and evil… he frowned.

After making sure that Arwen was secure around his neck, he jogged ahead and ducked behind a bush to witness a peculiar sight- a small man… a Halfling, riding on a majestic white horse that looked to be too big for him, and behind on his tail were four black riders, which reminded him of dementors, inhuman and dark. Hedwig watched from a nearby branch with her amber eyes. Between the Hobbit and the four riders was a river, to his right he could sense pure magic, like the one around Platform Nine and Three-Quarters back in his own world. He shook and ducked his head in thought, a gateway? To what?

"The Ring! The Ring!" The four black riders cried with deadly voices. His heart skipped a beat: the Ring? Arwen's legend: the golden band, the One Ring of great power! But… Harry felt confused- was it here? He stared at the Halfling with narrowed eyes.

'_Could it be?_' His surroundings faded into the distance, there were only muted sounds as, through the smaller man's cloak, he saw the One Ring, hanging from a chain and emanating radiance and malice, whispering promises and offers of power as the foreign words embedded in the gold shined with an inner light.

The One Ring promised to send him home where he can live a life of choice and freedom. Its voice was what one wanted to hear, but it didn't make any noise, but conveyed its feelings to him through the mind and deeper still. Is that all you really want? Take the Ring. Only then will your goals be fulfilled. Take the Ring; the Hobbit will be easy to kill. He saw the black lands and the tower where the Eye, great and terrible, swiveled from its position to stare right into the very depths of his soul…

Harry clutched his head and tried to dispel the possession taking over him as he groped for his flute and played an A#, loud and shrill.

The images disappeared, he was flung back into reality where Hedwig was tugging at his cloak and Arwen was shrieking, _&Wise One! Wise One! Ahead of you!&_ There came a roaring and a rushing: a noise of loud waters rolling many stones. Still feeling dazed, the wizard dimly noted that the river beside him was rising at an alarming rate. When he looked up at the incoming cavalry of waves where he fancied that he saw, amid the waters and the drowning black riders, white warriors on top of white horses with frothing manes, it was too late to move, his magic was too drained from his action to stop the invasion in his mind to half something as furious and powerful as this..

Instead, he closed his eyes and braced himself as the roaring engulfed him altogether. _'This is how my life is going to end…'_ He heard and saw no more.

oOoOo

Whiteness in a shade that caused him to see flashing spots surrounded him, wherever he was. The wizard was standing in an empty realm in the attire that he wore when he entered this world with Hedwig at his shoulder, seemly facing an invisible being. He absentmindedly stroked her head when she hooted and tightened her grip, concentrating on the presences in front of him.

'_Is this… the afterlife?'_ He wondered, arching his head back to gaze up at the whiteness above. '_I… I'm_,' struggling to find the right word to describe the situation, _'… bemused_.' Supernatural music drifted in yonder beyond any noticeable horizon that was soft, lutes and haunted singing coupled with mellow harmonies. It reminded him of the lesson the librarian had told him once over the summer, about a pre-Socratic philosopher named Pythagoras and his theory of Music and Space. Hedwig ruffled her wings daintily; suddenly, they weren't alone.

The invisible beings communicated with him through feelings and wordless thoughts, akin to the Ring but in a more pure fashion. They told him- _Death is only another journey. Do not try to impede its progress._

_You are here on the behalf of Eru Il__ú__vantar, who taught us, the Ainur, Great Music, the shaper of Arda, the sole creator of the Secret Fire and Flame Imperishable. Brought from the dead in your world of Earth through the Ainulindal__ë__, you and your familiar companion are his servants. _

_He expects you to help Ol__ó__rin in his quest._

Harry woke up… and found himself lying on his back in a luxurious bed, warmed under a clean sheet, Hedwig and Arwen were sleeping at a perch on his right, and a window was open on his left, showing him a grove of trees and letting in the chirping of birds. He was dressed in silk clothing that felt amazing against his skin when he shifted his position. What had happened? He was swept up by that rising tidal wave, at its mercy… So somehow he was knocked out and then found and brought into this place that he can almost call Paradise. Except what was this place?

He groaned aloud and rubbed his eyes, trying to recall his strange dream, Eru Ilúvantar? Arda? Olórin? What are these strange words? '_Blast it._' He thought to himself, '_Bloody riddles._' The invisible beings told him to not fear death, but to allow it, that he won't be able to return to his world because he was dead there, not really stating the cause, and that he was now a god's champion. All in all, he was, once again, something very close to the Chosen One.

This was bringing a sense of déjà-vu. No, he won't allow his life to be dictated like this. If he had died in Surrey (He died in Surrey? He had expected to die at the hands of Voldemort or at Hogwarts or at the least, at a magical community. Who killed him? His relatives? Death Eaters?) , then he should have stayed dead, either in eternal sleep or to run into the arms of his parents and Sirius. But now, it doesn't look like he has a choice… no, he refuses! First a prophecy, now a god!

"Ainulindalë." He muttered, testing the word on his tongue, marveling at its fluidity. _&Arwen,&_ He tentatively called out, waking his familiars, _&Are you ok? What happened?&_

_&Elves came out of the fortress of Imladris, Rivendell, and found Hedwig, who led them to you. You were badly hurt.&_Arwen sleeply muttered, slithering away from the snowy owl.

"Ah, you are awake." Harry turned his head to the door and watched as a man, perhaps a leader, and a Healer entered; both had pointed ears- elves. He was at an elfin village? (The Healer was whispering frantically in a foreign language to the man and gesturing toward the snake. The man hushed her and whispered something back, his eyes trained upon Harry.) Was that was the magical portal lead to? These elves were different from the one he had encountered on the other side of the mountains, instead of flaxen hair; they had rich, dark hair. But in other regards, they were exactly the same in appearance. The male stared at him with intense eyes, "Hello young traveler, you have been asleep for many days. Please forgive me, as when I commanded the flood, I did not see you there."

Harry gingerly sat up, wincing at the little flashes of pain that ran down his body, which must be decorated with bruises. "Not a problem," he reassured in his halting language after mentally translating Westron back into English, wishing that he had the freedom to consult Arwen , "You were saving the Halfing. Pray tell, is he alright?" It struck him a bit strange that when he was around this dark elf, he felt an obligation to correct his language and stature, unlike the light elves in that thrice-damned forest.

"You mean Frodo Baggins of the Shire? He is well," The man's eyes glittered with an emotion the wizard couldn't read, "I am Elrond, Lord of Rivendell." The Healer walked forward and soundlessly began checking Harry's injuries, muttering occasionally under her breath as she pushed and prodded different muscles.

Hint hint, "R-right. I'm Harry Potter… of England." He inclined his head and pointed to his two companions, "The snowy owl is Hedwig and the snake is Arwen." Oh no, did the two types of elves have regular correspondence between them? Did the blond elves warn this Lord about the 'dangerous being who hurt the Lady who invaded his mind'? What if all of this was a trap? He can't move right now, he's at the mercy of their machinations.

In his panic thoughts, Harry didn't look up and therefore missed the momentary rise of the elf's eyebrows, "I see, did you name them yourself?"

'_What an unusual question_,' startled, the boy looked up and blinked; then he hissed as the Healer rubbed cream over his lower back, "Not the snake," he gasped at the sensations, "she came to me named… She named herself." He stiffened again as the hands migrated from his back to his chest, not use to having any true skin on skin contact. His privacy bubble was popped, not even Madam Pomfrey was this intimate. When the elf lord didn't reply, he felt the need to explain himself, "I came from the South, East Emnet, and wanted to find Gandalf the Grey," Dark eyes bordering on black bore into him, not unlike Snape's stare, causing him to shift his weight and play with the hem of his shirt; Harry spoke softly, slowly, and concisely, "There was news from different mouths that he was in the Shire. Naturally I decided to head in that direction."

'_Don't talk about the elves. Don't talk about the elves._'

The Healer started bandaging his torso as Elrond said with a hint of amusement, "Luck is on your side, Harry Potter. Gandalf the Grey resides in my lands right now, I'm sure he'll be happy to receive you. But now, you heal, I'll leave you in peace." A small gesture of the head and the Healer exited the room. At the doorway, the dark elf paused with a hand on the handle, "I expect you to obey the rules of Hospitality, young Istari."

A flash of movement, Hagrid's flute soared through the air, staring at it, the boy wizard yelped in alarm it fell perfectly into his hands. Lord Elrond left in a flourish, leaving behind a befuddled Harry Potter.

oOoOo

The Healer who came to check on his wounds daily finally deemed his healthy enough to get out of bed, finally, after days of boredom. "No strenuous activity, understand?" She asked him with a hawk eye that was a combination of Madam Hooch and Madam Pomfrey. He had nodded brightly at her, grinning cheekily as his innocent façade slid into place. The Healer gave him a wary look, ("when you hear a bell, come to the main house across the river. There's a council there and your presence is desired.") After giving a considerable pause, the Healer gently patted Arwen on the head before departing for the last time.

_&Stretching my spine up a tree and in the high grasses_!& Arwen gushed excitedly, imitating a cobra that was mesmerized by a snake charmer, _&Wise One, does that not sound grand? Hedwig also wishes to spread her wings.& _

He hummed and nodded his head, moving in jerky motions; the bandages hampered his movement, and started dressing himself- pants, shoes, shirt, cloak, he grabbed the flute and waved his two familiars over, watching as Hedwig grasped Arwen in her claws and glided over. Harry opened the door excitedly and ran out into the wild.

He missed the sensations so much; he laughed joyfully as he slid the hood over his head and did a little dance-hop in the middle of the road, glad that there was no one watching him. This place, Rivendell, was so beautiful, a place that no human kingdom can ever hope to compete with; elves really do appreciate beauty. The ambient magic swirled powerfully around him; he could feel shield and guard wards around the outer borders, sustaining spells on the structures and free flowing magic on all the living organisms that he could see. On the green grass, sighing in satisfaction, he threw himself to the ground and turned to stare up at the sky, watching Hedwig fly back with a rodent in her beak and giggling as Arwen snuggled on his stomach and hissed contently.

'_Strange how there's no one here._' He mused as his eyes drifted shut lazily, '_It truly is paradise._' Birds chirped a tune in the distance, there was a subtle fragrance of sweet flowers blooming and fresh, running water. A hoot, a wordless hiss, rustling of trees, Harry began to dream…

Of that same black lands where monsters, those vile beings that looked like the elves had undergone a transformation similar to Voldemort's transformation from man into something part-snake, they lived in the strange realm with black and blood red skies, where the sun does not dare to shine, that horrible god-forsaken lands. The orcs snarled and roared their allegiance to the high of the tower, to that all-seeing eye that swiveled in its place, blood shot and eager for something to happen, searching for its ring, the One Ring. An inhuman voice whispered, "Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul…. Krimpatul…"

The eye turned in his direction and he saw what the eye saw, a man of small stature dressed in traveling clothes, speaking to an elderly man, clenching onto a golden ring that glowed and sent out a lure to everyone around the holder, greedily calling for the takers and the weak-minded. It called for Harry and promised power, a way home, and eternal happiness. (That's what he wants. That's all he ever wants.) The Ring-bearer turned around and stared…

A single clear bell rang into the clearing, _'The warning bell signifying the start of the Council of Elrond.' _The wizard sat up and stretched languidly, dusting his clothes of invisible dirt, _'Gandalf the Grey is most likely going to be there, I might have my answers sooner than I thought. Excellent.'_ Arwen slid onto his shoulder, Hedwig alighted onto the other. The Healer didn't specify what the Council will be debating on… it could be a trap for all he knows.

He shrugged off his insecurities a second later like oil over water, '_I'm a Gryffindor aren't I and with equal amounts of Slytherin? It's written in the books that I'll be foolishly courageous with a self-preservation instinct, I'll be fine._' After putting on a skin-tight shield spell over himself and his familiars, he set down the path to the main House where the rest of Elrond's guests were gathering.

oOoOo

Harry Potter sat at the far corner, making sure that enough people were sitting between him and any blond, pointed-eared being. He huddled in his chair with his hood covering his entire visage, drawing some looks, both curious and suspicious when the Lord of Rivendell skipped him when he started the introductions, _'Just like the Order of the Phoenix, except more debating. There's not set alliance between the races of men, elves, halflings, and dwarves._' The One Ring was so close to him, the evilness filled a void that Fawkes' feather had ripped away; it tantalized him and repulsed him. But more than all, it frightened him, such a powerful little thing can sway him, and he knew that his will was greater than most, he threw off the Imperius Curse in fourth year. Then again, since he's not from this world, he could be seen as weaker than most.

They talked about the Ring, they talked about its history, the history of the Kingdoms of Men, of a White Tree, of Moria and Mirkwood, and they touched upon every topic concerning Middle Earth that had Harry thankful that he had listened to Imiram during his lessons at Rowin. The boy couldn't listen to the stories and the discussions that went over his head about the Ring; he doesn't want to think about the Ring, or see it, or touch it, or hold it… He shook his head to will the thoughts out of his head, Merlin, he sucks at Occlumency.

Just as he focused his attention to the conversation, the noble man with dark hair and grey eyes, Boromir, said with passion, "The Men of Gondor are valiant, and they will never submit; but they may be beaten down. Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!"

His right eye twitched and his fingers glided over the runes on his flute, "Why?" He demanded, speaking for the first time since the Council began, adopting a tone that supposed that the mere thought of using the Ring in anyway was utter idiocy.

The man turned his head abruptly and narrowed his eyes at the perceived insult, "Speak stranger and identify yourself to the Son of Denethor."

Harry blatantly ignored the order and motioned to the alarmed Halfling sitting diagonally across from him, "Can't you sense the evil in it? It lures you into its clutches like sweet flowers that devour insects; you can't help but want the power that it whispers in your head. Horrible, vile artifact; what the Ring does is slow, the manipulation is precise and it is always patient. All men eventually fall to its voice." He pinned his gaze to the Ring-bearer, Frodo, who slightly flinched. Huh, the Halfling was too starting to become more susceptible to its call.

The wooden sound of the chair being pushed back, Boromir had stood up, fuming and coiled up like a cat about to strike. Hedwig screeched a warning from her position, partly opening her wings, looking alarmingly menacing. The temperature of the room dropped a couple of degrees, different races were fingering their weapons, and Harry stared back with a raised eyebrow. _'He has to know the darkness in the Ring. Who would be so foolish as to think that something so horrible would be able to benefit a good cause?_'

Arwen emerged partly out of his collar, swaying side to side and hissing threats to the large warrior. _&Foolish man! I hate your kind and your greedy selves that seek values that are not yours. Have we not been surrounded, I would have bit you for your imbecility!& _Everybody froze.

Harry closed his eyes exasperatingly and softly hissed assurances to his familiar, coaxing her to calm down. _&Arwen… Arwen… It's ok. Stand down; it's going to be all right. He would eventually see reason. He's of noble blood and obviously physically skilled, I don't want to see you getting hurt.&_

The snake flicked out her tongue at the audience before visibly sagging from her alarmed state. _&I apologize.&_

Whispers drifted:

"An Istari that speaks to snakes? Where did he come from?"

"-holds such dark gifts, for someone who looks so young. But he has not allied with Saur-"

"-wer from him. I heard the whispers of the Valar, he is the Green Wizard, sent to aid us in the coming war…"

"What? The Valar had spoken? Who is he?"

The air was tense.

Elrond stood up and admonished both of them, radiating order, "Alas, Boromir, the young man is in the right, no matter how rudely he stated it. (A warning glance was shot to the wizard.) We cannot use the Ruling Ring. That we now know too well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and in altogether evil." The leader went on this speech for more time. The tension abated; Boromir and he nodded an apology silently to the other, the latter mentally smacking himself over the head.

Why did he have to yell it aloud? Foolishness! He didn't want to attract any attention onto himself; there were light elves here, for Merlin's sake! If they know his as an Istari, it wouldn't be hard to make the connection that he was the Istari from the South and the traveler from the elven woods that harmed the Lady elf, if they haven't already (but he was careful to keep his flute hidden). He slouched over his chair to ignore the inquiring stares, '_But Boromir needed to know. The man can't believe that the One Ring is only a sign of pure power, no one can believe that._'

Arwen whispered gentle words as she coiled around his neck. Frodo and his company kept shooting his wary looks. The blond elf, Legolas, he remembers, didn't look to be interested, but he knew from the books that the race as a whole was able to look quite clearly out of the corner of their eyes. The other elves acted like nothing strange had happened. Boromir was careful to look in the opposite direction and the dwarves didn't seem to mind his outburst. Gandalf, in all his glory, stared at him with a thoughtful expression on his face before agreeing wholeheartedly with Elrond.

Well, at least his eyes didn't twinkle.

oOoOo

After the Council ended, with a surprising yet almost non-surprising revealing of another Halfling in the shadows named Sam, Harry stood up and popped some joints in his back. He sought out Gandalf, who was standing next to Elrond, peering at him with a keen stare. Swallowing a lump in his throat, the boy-wizard strolled over in a purposeful manner. He stopped in front of them and assessed the seemly powerful Istari.

Gandalf the Grey was dressed in robes with a darker shade of gray, looking drab above all else. He held a gnarly staff, looking more like a druid than a wizard. And yet, power emanated from the aged wizard, subtle, like he had experience in holding back his magic from others. Giving proper respect to a higher up, Harry bowed low, "Hello Gandalf the Grey, my name is Harry Potter." Elrond whispered into his friend's ear but didn't leave to give privacy; in fact, there were stragglers that were eavesdropping into his conversation.

"You are of my kind." Gandalf kindly informed him, "I sense magic about you, fellow Istari. You have to have sought me for a reason, speak."

As with Elrond, Harry felt obligated to speak slowly and concisely, "I am not from this world, Middle-Earth, but from another…" He didn't know the word for 'realm', "place, also called Earth, where magic-wielding people are numerous as any other non-human being here, such as elves and dwarves. I came here against my will and do not know how to return. I was hopeful that you might assist me in this… endeavor."

"The only way for you to enter this dimension is by the power of the Valar or Ainur." Harry blinked in surprise at this response for Gandalf going along with his explanation so readily and for the mention of the Ainur, something that he passed off as his crazy imagination. "Have they contacted you in any way?"

Harry's expression soured, "Yes, they told me to help someone named Olórin in his quest."

Elrond chuckled lightly and murmured, "Well my friend, it seems as though the Valar have given you an assistant."

Harry turned to the aged wizard and pinned him with a questioning look.

"I have many names in my lifetime, young Istari," Gandalf looked down, stroking his beard. "I assume that once you finish with the Ainur's quest, you will be able to return home. But as of now, my job is to escort young Frodo, son of Drogo, to Mordor. We will be moving east through the caves of Moria, resting at Lothlórien, to Rohan, to Gondor, then finally to Sauron's lands. It will be a perilous journey." He and Elrond exchanged grave looks, but Harry didn't notice, his brain stopped at the word 'Lothlórien'.

"You mean to say that we'll be going through Lórien?" Harry asked shakily as the memories returned to him, the invasion of his mind, the mad dash to survival, the loss of his beloved feather. "Is there no other path?" He added a pleading tone to his voice.

Elrond looked at him questioningly, "Is there something in the Lady's forest that repulses you?"

He kept silent, biting his tongue anxiously and floundered in his brain, thinking a way to bypass that dreaded place. "I will depart from Rivendell tomorrow at sundown; I cannot stay here any longer." The nearness of the Ring and the constant sightings of the light elves were driving him mad. "But I will meet with you at the foot of the mountains and escort you through." Gandalf was about to say something as Harry smoothly cut him off, "Rest assured, I have my ways." The wizard bowed to both men and left silently.

The Grey Istari turned Elrond, "Do you recognize him?"

Elrond gravely nodded, "Of course, from the moment I brought him to my home, the descriptions matched him too well: the eyes, the clothing, the instrument, the animals, the mannerisms. Though the fact that he could communicate with the serpents took me aback, Lady Galadriel will be pleased to hear the news I bear."

oOoOo

Harry's lips were on his flute, his fingers were precise and fast, the tune that he created was a vibrant jig. Eyes close, leaning against the tree, he concentrated on the stream of water he was drawing from the river that swirled and flew around him, and he imagined the water dance around him in forms of people. A water spirit from the group stepped forward and curtseyed and drew back into the circle, and around and around they danced, faster and faster. The sunlight caused them to sparkle in all sorts of colors and shoot streams of color to the ground. The flute's music turned haunting, imitating the effects if the undine spirits ever did manage to sing, entrancing, beautiful.

Someone was coming near, not bothering to hide the sounds of footsteps. Harry abruptly stopped his tune, ending on a screech- the water dispersed and flew in all directions.

The figure drawing near had his hands up in surrender; he was dressed in nature colors of green and brown, his long blond hair was straight, his visage was perfectly proportioned, he had pointed ears.

Legolas of Mirkwood: Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the figure, which stopped and stared back. Idly feeding to his imagination, Harry fancied that there was a lone whistle in the wind that blew miniature tumbleweeds between them. Hands tightened over his flute, _'what is the other doing? Does he want something?' _Legolas knows somehow, proof could be seen in the comprehension in his eyes. _'He knows that I'm the Istari that relies upon music for my magic. He can tell everyone who I am… He can tell everyone who I am… and there's nothing I can do to stop him.' _

Does this scare him? In this world there is an underlying distrust that forms between strangers, unlike his own it's stronger and more primitive, like a string that is so taught that with anymore pressure it will snap and whip apart. The darkness is controlling the string, the darkness is going to break the string, and the darkness is preventing his way back home… Legolas holds distrust for him, even pure beings like elves are impure, and the thought amused him. But no, Harry realized with a start, he's not scared. He suspects that Elrond, at the very least, knows and haven't confronted him due to the Rules of Hospitality.

He's… apathetic. Like he doesn't belong in this war, he doesn't have to participate in it. He's so tired of fighting and strife. For all his life, he thought and believed, later wished with all his heart that he was 'Just Harry.'

This war is going to drag him in. He has to survive. He'll need to train.

At last, he decided to give the elf a low bow of semi-respect as this was no time to be making enemies. Harry retreated back into the shadows of the tree, showing that he didn't want Legolas to approach. Arwen slid from the high tree and landed on his shoulder as he turned to walk back to his stay.

oOoOo

"_I'll see you on the other side of the mountains, stay safe._" Hedwig hooted, alighted off the rock, and gracefully soared in the air, fast becoming an insignificant white dot in the sky.

Stroking Arwen's head, he reviewed his status: he still sucks at sword work, no matter how hard he tries. Mere observation and self-teaching is obviously not the way to go. But he practiced his magic and managed to make a pitiful attempt at the warming charm, which was more than he hoped that he would achieve. The warming charm, however, could only heat a mere inches from his magical core, so his bones were perfectly content but his skin was still frozen.

The wizard gathered his cloak about him, the winds of the Misty Mountains are still as cold as ever, bitingly so, but now its not so bad when he realized there are worst paths to take, such as being in contact with the One Ring. The Ring had been hazing his clear mind, distorting his thoughts and personality, forcing upon him dreams of Sauron and Mordor, and whispering fake promises. Even now, from a distance, the Ring persisted, but its voice was muted. The dreams still came, but compared to when he was in Rivendell, it was tame.

He watched his breath cloud the air, thoughtfully frowning: this didn't happen before the 'elf fiasco'. Fawkes's feather was his anchor, the Occlumency shield that Snape had wanted him to get. He needs it back, he really needs it back, but an "Accio," didn't work due to elven wards. Spending the remaining amount of time devising ways to get the feather back, Harry played with the idea of asking Gandalf to get it back for him, but that wouldn't work. And there was no way to sneak into another's stronghold without the enemy knowing, magic was thick in the air of Lothlórien, he would be Hagrid amongst on a muggle train.

Then there was that dream.

Mist and the serene light that filtered through the leaves lit up his surroundings that showed a perfect paradise that rivaled Rivendell in its mystic. Beings and nature melded perfectly against this backdrop as he walked around, listening to the music softly chanting in the background, feeling at ease, not at all threatened, and unsure whether this was because of an area spell. But one can't get hurt in dreams right?

A white figure in sheer fabrics and silk-like material, bathed in an unnatural light, glided to his side. He cocked his head and looked at her; it was that Lady from the elven woods, the trespasser into his mind. He gave her a nod, having many questions in his head but unable to voice them due to his inability to wrap his thoughts around the situation. But this elf lady was high and noble, despite that morally he felt higher than her, socially he was inferior.

She bowed deeply in return and murmured in a lilted voice, "Honorable Istari, I apologize for my actions, unknown that they would offend you in such a manner. I am Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood, the keeper of this realm, one that you have only witnessed the borders to."

"Very beautiful," he noted, "You've done well."

She warmly smiled, "I give my thanks and would also like to extend an invitation to meet with me personally here in the real world with my husband. My time here won't be much longer and my power quickly drains, it'll be an honor to converse with you."

A pause: she wanted to talk with him for what? Her own satisfied curiosity? Not that he really blames her too much; Merlin knows that he was much worse back at Hogwarts. Right now, she almost resembled a hopeful child. Should he? He wanted vengeance against the light elves, they tried to kill him, and would have too if his luck didn't decide to pop out at the opportune moment. Inside though, he was a pacifist at heart and didn't wish for anymore strife. It can't be that easy though, to reconcilliate, probably simple for them to feed it some healing potions but not for him. He needs to deliberate, everything is moving, once again, too fast for him to comprehend.

Alas, too much time has passed. With one last bow, Lady Galadriel faded away along with the hauntingly beautiful Lothlórien.

oOoOo

"Hullo." From his perch on the rock, Harry looked up and smiled at the company, eyes scanning everyone of the Fellowship: Aragorn, suppose Heir to Gondor, Boromir, Son of the Steward of Gondor, Gandalf the Grey, Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, Gimli, Member of Durin's Folk, Meriadoc, Merry, Brandybuck and Peregrin, Pippin, Took, Hobbits of the Shire, Samwise, Sam, Gamgee, Gardener, and Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer. Why was he to join them as the tenth member, it disrupts the balance: nine rings, nine members of the fellowship, even if he never studied Numerology, he knew and appreciated the fates that supported reflected numbers. He stood and Arwen, attached to his arm, hissed at the newcomers. "I've been informed by Lórien."

Gandalf tapped his staff to the ground, "Then we have no problems."

The younger patted dirt off his clothes, "Okay, I shall come with you to Moria." He pulled the hood to cover even more of his features, "Though I'm not sure why you need me. Your experiences have led you more through this place then I," He shook his head, "I won't question you, I'm coming along just to get my feather or just finish the order by the higher ups, no more, no less."

oOoOo

"…I sometimes still wish that I was at the Shire, Bag End, with Bilbo, where I had never heard of Moria, and _mithril_- or the Ring." Frodo whispered fingering his sword. The Company was preparing into the night, the Ring-bearer apparently saw a personal confidant within the wizard. The cavernous halls were filled with darkness that could seep into one's psyche, showing the marvels of the hollow, immense, wonderful, and dreadful Moria.

Harry patted the Hobbit on the head, easily sympathizing with the small man, and squeezed his shoulder. They both ended up in similar situations and forced into it by powers beyond their controls but accepted the burden all the same. When Harry looked at Frodo, he saw himself; they were essentially the same. He knew that Frodo would not sleep easy tonight. Hanging from the smaller man's neck, the One Ring continued to throb with dark magic.

"Sometimes," the wizard smiled wistfully. In the darkness, he was unaware of the many eyes upon him, "the best hero to complete the quest is the reluctant one."

oOoOo

The chamber had connecting doors, each leading to a room that was ransacked; broken boxes, bent axes, pieces of swords, cloven shields and helmets. He closely examined a blackened scimitar, daring not to touch it. _&This place reeks of dirtied, aged blood, Wise One.&_ Arwen said from the top of his head. One of the Hobbits jerked up before realizing that it was his familiar. _&There is a lot of death, sweat, and blood. Can you taste it?&_

No, no he can't. Harry looked back at the tomb holding the Lord of Moria, frowning, '_A great battle: a fight to the death._' Will whoever destroyed this place come back? There had been some noises in the distance when Pippin, threw rocks into the waters. Whether it was from the Hobbit's actions or something roused by the Hobbit's actions, the wizard couldn't tell. Neither could Gandalf. It set everyone on edge.

He wished that the Hobbit would treat this more seriously, everyone on this journey has a potential to bloody screw with things and die.

This place was a murder mystery; there were puzzles to piece together to find out the exact events before the destruction. The Istari found a book of records, barely readable through the heaps of abuse it had gone through. Gimli's face was ashen as he looked over the aged wizard's arm, but Harry had to give the dwarf credit for keeping himself composed. Gandalf began to read, Harry only listened with half an ear as he pulled an arrow out of the wall and pressed his finger against the tip and drew blood, hmm, still sharp, "_-shot him from behind a stone. We slew the orc, but many more…up from east up the Silverlode. _The remainder of the page is so blurred that I can hardly make anything out, but I think I can read _we have barred the gates, _and then _can hold them long if, _and then perhaps _horrible _and _suffer._"

As the Istari continued to speak, a familiar feeling of anticipation and dread, that wonderful combination that tells him that trouble is looming, coming closer and closer at a rapid rate. Perhaps this will be his first taste of a true battle, he will have to kill. This was war. Gripping his flute tightly, he observed some faces of the Company. Aragorn and Boromir were still, fingering the handles of their swords, their fighter instinct was probably going off in their heads. '_Fighter instinct…_'

"Listen!" Gandalf said, still pouring over the book, "_We cannot get out. We cannot get out. They have taken the Bridge and second hall. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there. _Then there are four lines smeared so that I can only read _went 5 days ago. _The last lines run _the pool is up to the wall at Westgate. The Watcher in the Water took Óin. We cannot get out. The end comes_, and then _drums, drums in the deep. _I wonder what that means. The last thing written is in a trailing scrawl of elf-letters: _they are coming. _There is nothing more." He paused and stood in silent thought. The pressure in the room was thick as if the whole place was submerged in water, hard to breath, hurts to breath. The last echoes of Moria disappeared and replacing it was malice.

'_Their last stand, they knew they were going to die, Noble, valiant, heroic, desperate times of war.'_ Harry kicked an empty shattered box as others discussed the message and the meanings, '_The Orcs took everything. An entire civilization… gone._'

oOoOo

He imagined the dwarves, all like Gimli in their armor, helmets and axes fighting fiercely against the monsters, which tore into them, treating metal like paper, whose arrows and swords cleanly flew through dwarf flesh. They screamed and they moaned as one by one, they fell. The survivors retreated into their own prison and barricaded the door, waiting for the day that it all ends, waiting for the day that they die.

_&Wise One, filthy creatures are approaching…&_

Gandalf called everybody to go back to the hall, but then there came a rolling _Boom_ that came from beneath the ground and caused everything to tremble. Everyone jumped toward the doors in alarm. '_Here are the thundering drums of war and horns and harsh cries._' _Boom, Boom. _Huge hands rolled the halls of Moria in upon itself. Crazed yells and thundering feet caused the entire cavern to shudder as if it was a vast drum. Harry Potter shakily brought his flute to his lips, wondering if he has what it takes to kill and to survive in this hellish place. _Doom, doom._

"They are coming!" Legolas cried.

"We cannot get out." Gimli said.

_Boom, boom. __'We cannot get out.' _Orcs and Uruks of Mordor and cave-trolls attacked the entrance eagerly with arrows and other assorted weapons. The Fellowship barred the doors with anything they could find.

_Doom__, doom. _His ears registered heavy feet in the corridor. A giant foot, hideous and large, kicked a hole into the splintering door. Boromir tried to attack the appendage but his sword rang and glanced off. Frodo shouted, "The Shire!" with such courage that has never been heard from him before and thrust his own weapon into the foot, drawing black blood. A bellow of pain, rams and hammers beat the remains of the door back, which finally gave way and allowed arrows to whistle in. The defense rushed forward to meet the orcs and Harry began to play, allowing his fingers to dance across the holes in an eerie tune, momentarily paralyzing his own comrades; as he closed his eyes the swords and weapons, broken and battered, began to shake and rise to the airs, and waited to thrust forward into the hearts of the enemies as the defense rushed, giving their cry of battle. His music is his life, it is able to sway hearts and make them shudder, and it can save him. _Boom, boom._

He closed his eyes and kept playing, trusting Arwen to be his eyes. Magic hummed in his veins and spread out in a horizontal circle as he heard orcs rush in. _&Two in front,&_ Arwen informed, _&spear them through at your eye-level.&_ Twin roars of pain, wetness sprayed onto his forehead; eyes still shut, he never liked killing. &_More flying weapons toward your right side, Wise One.&_ An arrow nicked past his temple, drawing some blood, but nothing life-threatening. Feel the music control you, it goes where it wants to go and modulates to its own rules, and one can only ask the magic for favors.

He opened his eyes as his music slowed to a halt, and stared around, blinking dazedly. The shrieking enemies had retreated quickly back into the darkness, at least temporarily to regroup.

"Now is the time!" Gandalf cried, "Let us go before the troll returns."

"Well, it did not skewer me, I am glad to say," Frodo feebly joked as he coughed when Aragorn asked him how he not managed to be dead after the spear of the huge orc-chieftan. Harry met the Hobbit's eye for a second longer than normal and grinned at him (mithril was the answer). Gandalf whispered something about secrets before leading them on to the other Gates of Moria.

_Boom, boom. _They had managed to escape the self-imposed trap in the chamber and through numerous arches and hallways, descending at a fast pace through the passage way. The air was causing him to sweat; either that or his adrenaline was wearing out. The drum beats were pursuing them, _Doom, doom_. They came louder and louder as the air grew hotter and hotter. Gandalf led the Fellowship past the double line of towering pillars, carves like mighty trees, smooth and black, whose boughs upheld the roof with a branching tracery of stone. The grey Istari ran at a pace that didn't seem befitting toward his age. Then again, they were running for their lives, away from the enemies in the distance that numbered far more than ten. _Doom, doom_: the pillars trembled. The place they needed to cross was the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm, the narrow passage that Harry could see if he squint his eyes hard enough. _Boom, boom. _A terrible feeling of foreboding came upon him.

oOoOo

A great fissure ripped opened from the ground of the cavernous hall and out of it came a fierce scarlet light and curls of black smoke. Then fire licked at the edges of the newly formed cliff and emerged and curled around the columns like a seductive lover. Harry felt his hairs stand on end at the truly dark magic that wasn't dark but… but… demonic. _Doom, doom. _The war drums still beat behind them, but their progress was halted by the newly formed rift of fire that was fast expanding. _Doom, doom._

The Bridge of stone was up ahead, looking perilous and fragile, balancing over a dark chasm that had no virtual bottom. "Lead the way, Gimli! Pippin and Merry next. Straight on, and up the stair beyond the door!" _Boom, boom. _Behind the fire, the orcs shot arrows, one of them hitting Harry in the arm when his attention was directed elsewhere. Thankfully, it was a mere wound.

…Mere wound… Had this been a couple hours back, he would have been screaming in white-fire pain. Arwen coiled around the pierced flesh to staunch the flow of blood and said no more.

Louder and louder _Doom, doom. _It was unbearable. On the other side, Legolas turned and notched a bow to the string and drew… but then his hands lifelessly fell and the elf gave a cry of dismay and fear. _Boom, boom. _Harry followed the other's eyes to the source and froze in terror.

_Boom, boom. _A dark creature was behind the enemy, giant and horrible, reeking smoke that smelled of death. It seemed to groan as its red eyes snapped open and stepped once to the side. It was the devil with a burning long mane that lighted behind. _Doom, doom. _He didn't dare to stare at it longer than a few moments, fearing that the mere sight of such a monstrosity would damage his psyche, but it was horrible and terrible, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. The flames framed the giant and swirled around the fire whip it held in its hands that it snapped at the ground, unleashing a wave of heat and fire. The worst nightmare in existence, the accumulation of every single evil that the world has ever witnessed since it was born all converged into this very being that froze Harry's blood. Legolas wailed, "Ai! Ai! A Balrog! A balrog is come!"

Bending forward, the Balrog gave a horrid cry that was a combined scream and roar, raising hairs and causing weak limbs. Regaining his senses, Harry, bringing up the rear, yelled, "Go! We run! We run to the Bridge!" _Boom. _He pushed the elf forwards and was behind Boromir after he blew his horn, which only halted the rising ranks of flame and orcs momentarily before they advanced forwards with a vengeance. _Boom, boom. _Like cockroaches, the orcs poured over the paths.

They ran ever faster as the darkness and fire, given a physical entity, attacked their heels. Harry was a sprinter at heart from his childhood years; he willed his legs to move even faster; the Balrog was a creature that one does not even try to confront, the ones that do will do it out of sheer stupidity and, quoted from Snape, 'foolish Gryffindor recklessness' and will pay the price. He likes to think that he has matured a bit from the overly-courageous Gryffindor, but these thoughts are currently impeding on his speed, and so he re-concentrated his efforts into his running.

They came upon the bridge, "-I must hold the narrow way. Fly!" Gandalf cried as Harry ran past him, Aragorn, and Boromir. The magic around the aged man grew to frightening proportions and swirled around him, presenting himself as someone with better physical strength or someone who hasn't left his prime. _Boom, boom. _He stood on the middle of the path, non-verbally casting a spell over the aged and warded bridge, leaning on his staff and pouring all his power into the stone. Old stones hold great power; old magical stones are harder to break and who knows how old Khazad-Dûm was. _Doom._

The Istari didn't budge and the fire whose fingers touched him and burned his robes but not his skin. _Doom. _"You cannot pass," He intoned low and reverberating, "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass." The place was strangely silent saved for the soft and heavy breathing. Harry kept his eyes trained on Gandalf, superimposing an image of Dumbledore over him. The fire halted in their assault and in its place, darkness took its place.

_Doom, doom__. _Able to look no longer, Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hearing sounds of a drawing sword as his head hummed at the thick magic that weighed down and spun into a vortex, being sucked by the Bridge. He could feel the ambient magic danced through the whole chamber, flying to the walls, across the chasm, up and down the darkness, reveling in its temporary freedom. _Boom, boom. _His own magic left him to aid in the aged wizard's goals. The magic glided down, fast and slow, and rushed to help and obey, whispering of nonsensical things. It was a strange sensation, this new magic sensitivity; he wondered how long it will last.

_Doom, doom. _Lightheaded, he squeezed his eyes even tighter, breathed in and out noisily, and hunched his back as Gandalf cried the statement of intent, "You shall not pass!"

_Boom. _A final wave of magic erupted from a single point and fanned outward away from his, branching into many little vessels and veins, searching for any weak cracks to exploit, any spot that had been overlooked for too long. _Boom. _He slowly opened his eyes again, feeling faint. It was working, the bridge, protected, powerful, and ancient as it was, was crumbling before his very eyes- a feat that Harry knew for sure that he himself was not capable of.

_Doom, doom. _The drums rolled the air and the ground in its everlasting metronomic, monotonous sequence, resonating to itself like the correct pitch through a pipe, that didn't fluctuate in power or tempo. It was the perfect rhythm- neither fast nor slow, something ironic considering its creators. In a way, the beats temporarily disrupted the magic, causing it to roll in backwards before re-setting upon the right path. Harry couldn't see it, but he could feel it.

_Boom. _The Balrog snarled and was full upon the bridge, its flaming whip whistling through the air. _Doom, doom. _Its nostrils erupted fire and from its great height, it hunched, looming over the grey figure that was ant-like in comparison. The black wings extended behind it and covered the entire length of the chasm. _Doom, doom. _The staff of Gandalf was thrust into the dead center and cracked the bridge at the demon's feet. The stones broke off from the main work and tumbled down into the black depths, there was no end. _Boom, boom. _The reflected magical shockwave hit him with the force of a flying sledgehammer in full colors and sound, he stumbled back, someone caught him before he fell, blinking wildly.

He felt, in the corner of his memories, the voices of the Valar from his dreams "Death is only another journey. Do not try to impede its progress."

The monster was felled by the light of the power given by the Valar. _Boom, boom. _And down the Balrog vanished from view, screeching fury at its defeat… but it won't be wholly undone; its whip flinging forward in one last attempt at revenge and coiled around Gandalf's leg and dragged him to the chasm. _Doom. _Gasping in surprise and grabbing at the smooth stone, the Istari slid down, making one last vain grasp at the edge of the stone. _Boom. _

"Fly, you fools!" _Doom. _His last words echoed as he slowly slid into the abyss… and was gone.

_Doom, doom._

"Gandalf!"

Frodo's cry of anguish still ringed in his head, refusing to leave. _...Doom. _Aragorn led the Fellowship, one member short, and Boromir took the rear. The Hobbits were distraught, silently sobbing as they ran up the stairs into the sweet blinding light at the death of their beloved guardian. Harry felt distracted and numb, unable to place his feelings into even abstract descriptions. Aragorn took down an orc guard and drove the rest of them away. _…Doom... _Out of the Gates of Moria, they descended the steps, and kept running away from the walls and the soft smoke that wisped out of the exit, under the sky and the fresh sun shined brightly from its height, illuminating the clouds and banishing all shadows. They still ran till they were a good distance away from the Misty Mountains. _…Doom..._

The drumbeats were few and far between, the earth didn't vibrate as violently as it looked back.

He couldn't feel anything. He couldn't hear anything.

…The drumbeats faded.


	3. Fickleness of Death

Author's Note- Don't give me high standards please, I'm out of it enough as is. Thanks for the bucket-loads of responses! You know, I've read the books when the movies came out, in sixth and seventh grade, so now as a senior in high school, I'm rereading the Trilogy to write this fic and wow, I never knew how wonderfully otherworldly-archaic Tolkien managed to sound, and pulled it off to boot with a freaking aplomb. Kudos to him.

Note- I don't own Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. The songs that Harry plays- I'm imagining are variations of the Lord of the Rings Soundtrack.

"_Speaking_"= English. '_Thoughts'_= English.

_&Speaking&_= Parseltongue

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

_A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover_

**Tales of a Wanderer: Fickleness of Death**

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

The dynamics in the group had drastically changed after Gandalf's death and the turn was not for the better. Harry, while still struggling to find his own pattern of mourning for the Istar who seemed to embody a sanctuary simply with his magnanimous presence, noticed first the Hobbits, specifically Frodo Baggins, who had began to grow cold towards him. He side-glanced over at said dark-haired Hobbit and saw a vulnerable figure curled up in a ball, shaking slightly from a nightmare that will be forgotten once the sleeper awakes, painting a different picture from the glacial personality that he carried in the day. The rest of the Hobbits had soon followed the Ring-bearer's stead and the act had spread to the rest of the Company. The others had probably thought that he, Harry James Potter, had the power with his flute to carry Gandalf to safety… and in actuality, he did; he just wasn't allowed to save Gandalf. He didn't bother to try to justify himself. The explanation for his passivity was too perplexing for anyone who was not familiar with the inner workings of the Ainur and magic, even he didn't understand most of the time: the events at the Bridge in Moria were proper- Gandalf was supposed to die.

The young wizard gloomily poked the dying flames with a dried stick and warily looked around; he heard no goblins, no birds or any sort of wild life. It was disconcerting. Before deep night fell and revealed the clear stars, Aragorn (the poor man had been trying to act as the laison between him and the others) had assigned Legolas and him to guard till sunrise. He glanced down at his wounded arm where the Orcs' arrow had pierced him; the area was bandaged tightly by the elf, a bit too tight, notably too tight. No words had exchanged between them when the other had tended his injury, he couldn't remember much besides wincing alot. Harry looked over the fire: his companion's eyes were darting into the darkness of the forests but never in his direction: Legolas, too, blamed him for the tragedy yesterday. Merlin damns the elves.

_&They cannot understand,&_ Arwen had whispered into his ear, _&Despite the differences, they, all races, seem quite alike. Learn from this, for you are different, Wise-One, they are merely mortals and the elven one is young for his kind and innocent. Mistakes are made.&_ She had retreated back into the heat of his clothes but kept her head out at his collarbone. _&Withink time, we have to learn to forgive their transgressions.&_

He's stronger than this, he had been ostracized at Hogwarts plenty of times, how could he think that this world will be any different? During the day, the Fellowship discussed Frodo's health, which was quickly recovering its usual strength, and their destination, the Golden Wood. He threw the stick into the fire and watched it darken and crackle, the warmth of the flames licked color back into his skin, _'how well did the group know each other before I intruded upon them? They act like they've known each other for years and years, even the dwarf and the elf are beginning to warm against each other.'_

Why did it feel like he was on the outside looking in? Why was he suddenly, at the moment, the feeling impacted him like a blast of frigid air to the pits of his stomach, reminded of the fact that he doesn't belong in this world?

Placing his flute to his lips, fingers in position, he took a soft breath and blew.

oOoOo

The Company thinks of him as a murderer, but he isn't. How can he make them understand? '_I'm not a murderer. I'm not a murderer. I'm not a murderer…'_

'_Of course,_' a nasty voice whispered in his mind, '_if you keep saying that, you just might convince yourself._'

oOoOo

Harry dreamed a series of images.

He saw the walls of Hogwarts, majestic and tall, as they appeared in the distance through the carriage windows.

He was perched on the window in the house of the kind family that had taken him in Rowin, being patted on the head and cooed over by Carin and Atricia and fed a live mouse.

He saw an elven woman of long silvery hair dressed in white of purity moving across a clearing with unnatural grace to peer into a rippling mirror; Lady Galadriel looked up and her eyes met directly with his.

He saw the grass from a vantage point of a snake, parting the blades of green with his head, tasting the air and searching for prey.

He saw a dark cloud that turned into a shower of arrows, hitting invisible targets and spraying blood.

He saw an eye, large and evil, perched atop a tower, superimposed by the image of a golden ring.

The next morning, he kicked dirt over the dying flames and waited for the Fellowship to rise. Early winds whispered among many leaves as the Company walked through the shades of the tree and the light of the shining Sun. But he only saw darkened cloth over his eyes. The elf's… marchwarden's grip on his shoulder was gently but firm. Harry wondered why the elf seemed to take special attention in making sure that he stays with the rest of the Company, '_perhaps_ _Aragorn had talked to the elf briefly when I wasn't near._' Neither he nor the elf had spoken a direct word toward each other, but there was a silent compatibility between them, or at least, Harry felt there was.

Blindfolded and gently guided down a path, the young wizard finally stopped in his place when he realized that he heard no more footsteps and the beginnings of many voices around him, like an army of soft-footed soldiers. The marchwarden, Haldir, had gone momentarily to consult with his kind before returning with good news, "Also, they bring me a message from the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim. You are all to walk free, even the dwarf Gimli. It seems that the Lady knows who and what is each member of your Company. New messages have come from Rivendell perhaps."

'_I don't think so,' _Harry unconsciously rubbed his scar, '_she met me again last night. She was judging my soul to be good and true. I reckoned that she had judged us all.'_

"Your pardon! Look on us now with friendly eyes! Look and be glad, for you are the first dwarf to behold the trees of the Naith of Lórien since Durin's Day!" The marchwarden exclaimed joyfully. There was a grunt of reluctant acceptance at his right from Gimli.

When Haldir uncovered his eyes, he automatically looked up and saw Boromir's eyes directed to the side toward Frodo, at Frodo's chest where the hidden chain was that held the One Ring. The man's eyes held a darker element of restrained greed. Boromir looked up and met his eyes and held the gaze challengingly for a moment before releasing and pretended to be absorbed in the landscape. _&The man of Gondor is failing.& _Harry murmured.

Arwen poked out and flicked her tongue, _&Learn from this, Wise One. Man is weak, you are no longer of them.& _The marchwarden looked up alarmingly at the Parseltongue, paled when he saw the snake, but remained silent.

_&Was I ever human, Arwen?& _Harry asked.

Her tongue flickered out to his cheek, tickling his skin, as if to taste his very essence, which she seemed to do. _&Once, a long time ago, years back, I should think. There are traces that linger along you, but more and more, they disappear into the soil and ashes of your mortal remains.&_

Humming in ascent at his companion's words, as he looked around, he was struck by a sense of déjà-vu. They were standing in an open space. To the left stood a great mound, covered with a blanket of green grass. Upon it, as a double crown, grew two circles of trees: the outer had bark of snowy white, and were leafless but beautiful in their shapely nakedness; the inner were mallorn-trees of great height, still arrayed in pale gold. High amid the branches of a towering tree that stood in the centre of all there gleamed a white felt. At the feet of the trees, and all about the green hillsides the grass was studded with golden flowers shaped like stars. Among them, nodding on slender stalks, were other flowers, white and palest green; they glimmered as a mist amid the hue of the grass. Over all the sky was blue and the sun of afternoon glowed upon the hill and cast long green shadows beneath the trees.

'_I've seen this before in a dream with Lady Galadriel. But it's more beautiful in reality, more clear and striking.' _

oOoOo

'_I can stay in Caras Galadhon forever and remain at peace_,' the wizard thought happily as a serene wind blew about his hair, leaving it messier than ever. '_The place is breathtaking in a world of imperfections and wrongs._' In the meeting with the Lord and Lady, Celeborn and Galadriel, Harry had remained contently silent, allowing the other's words to wash over him as formal greeting and well-wishing were done. And then, the Company began to talk about Gandalf's passing.

"Indeed I saw upon the bridge that which haunts our darkest dreams, I saw Durin's Bane," said Gimli in a low voice, and dread was in his eyes.

There was a silence that seemed to be aimed at Harry. At length, unable to resist the urge to talk with half of the Fellowships' accusing eyes on his back and the elven woman's inquisitive stare, Harry lowered his head as he said as formally as he could, "The battle was great. In these troubled times, I hope that Gandalf's death is not in vain." He looked imploringly towards the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, hoping that they would understand him. '_His death will, in time, mean something more. It was told that he was to die in order for the world to be proper. Do you understand me, unlike my companions, or will you look upon me with the same disdain that I have been given for days on end?' _The Lady's eyes searched his; the suspense was thick in the air, it seemed like everyone were erect statues.

At last, from Galadriel, he got a serene smile, a true one, and a visible nod, "Of course. All things shall be happening for a reason." A knot in his stomach that he hadn't realized was there began to unravel; he allowed a sigh of relief and felt something akin to cold water cleansing him of his guilt. "I am proud of you."

"Alas!" said Celeborn, addressing the dwarf again, "We long have feared that under Caradhras a terror slept…" The meeting continued.

How long has the weight in his chest lied there, hanging from invisible strings, anchored in his heart? Harry was surprised… amazed… no, shocked at the amount of peace and plain respite he felt. '_I never thought that something so seemly insignificant can affect me so much. All I needed was someone to trust me that I wasn't a murder, but I had surrounded myself with neutral hostilites. Only one person had to believe me. '_

If it wasn't for decorum, he would've rushed into the elven woman's arms and sobbed. Allowing his head to fall into his hands, he did not look up for the rest of the assembly. Shuddering breaths, like a fish gasping on land, came out of him, oppressing the racking sobs that were churning in his chest. He mourned for the death of a Wise Man.

oOoOo

That night, clutching to his flute as comfort, he had the best sleep in the longest time and dreamt of music and magic. Supernatural beings whispered messages into his ear, leaving him with tasks to fulfill and a destiny to follow. He didn't like to be a puppet with strings pulling at his limbs, but his inner Gryffindor told him that it was his duty, has always been, to help save the world.

oOoOo

One night, the entire Company was again summoned to the chamber of Celeborn, and there the Lord and Lady greeted them with fair words. At length Celeborn spoke of their departure.

"Now is the time," he said, "When those who wish to continue the Quest must harden their hearts to leave this land. Those who no longer wish to go forward may remain here, for a while. But whether they stay or go, none can be sure of peace. For a while we are come now to the edge of doom. Here those who wish may await the oncoming of the hour till either the ways of the world lie open again, or we summon them to the last need of Lórien. Then they may return to their own lands, or else go to the long home of those that tall in battle."

There was a silence and Harry stepped forward. It was a little step, not too bold to be proud of his decision, but meek. However unsure the step was though, it was still a step. Galadriel's eyes sought his, "All resolve to go forward but one." He didn't reply, but deliberately unfocused his eyes ahead, seeing not the elven woman's eyes but only space and blurred silhouettes. Above all, he didn't see the rest of the group's stares and wondered how they felt. Angry? Regretful? Relieved? Apathetic? The tall lady inclined her head, "Why, young Istar, do you wish to stay behind? Was it partly due to the sudden magic that had contacted you in the night?"

His face took on a solemn look, "the Music spoke again to me. I am to leave the Fellowship, since I was never a real member of the group. There is magic in numbers and my assistance offsets the war and balance between good and evil, the neutral powers in this world might compensate or overcompensate."

"Your path diverges at this point, do you know of your goals that the Ainur has given?" said Galadriel

"They did not tell me that much," Harry grimaced, having never liked it when his life was pre-determined by powers that he had no control over. It made him feel like a marionette, caught in the strings of a prophecy, like that of Hogwarts Fifth year. He peek through his lashes and tried to find his next words. "You had invited me to Lothlórien because you had seen what had happened at the Bridge, but that was before and… You could see the future." His hands caressed his wooden flute in a habit of placating his anxiety, "You wanted to do this single task to help me and yet because of that, I was in the situation of which I needed help. You guided me by freeing me from the guilt that accompanies a death." The last sentence was spoken almost as an accusation.

"No," she replied gaily, displaying a Mona Lisa smile that was all secretive and no teeth, "you might see that, young Istar, as it is you who has a wonderful mind and spirit that has been jaded. One might say that I was too curious to see you and to return something that you have lost." Harry looked down; his eyes widened as he stifled a gasp. Galadriel had her hands in front, palms upward; in those palms was Fawkes' feather.

He was so stupefied that it took a few seconds for his brain to digest what he was seeing. Happiness rushed into his every fiber, leaving him breathless and able to hear songs in the wind of joy and love. '_It's here! After so long, I thought that… It's here, its back with me.' _His throat dried up and he choked on his next words, the phoenix feather glowed softly in accordance to his emotion. He reached up and plucked the feather, feeling instant warmth to his core as familiar magic, like a flame, flowed back into his veins and greeted him like an old lover. How cold he was before! He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensations as the familiar phoenix trill and songs played in the distant corner of his memories. "I… I… Thank you. Thank you very much."

Hugging him tightly, the Magic seemed to tell him, "Do not ever forget us much. Welcome back, wizard. With time, I'll have you become strong again, like your previous self. It has been too long since I've seen you." His eyes stung and his cheeks were wet.

"Your arrival into our world made this war all the more delicate. Certain events, I suppose, must happen without you there as you go onto your own Quest." Galadriel reached over and touched his cheek with her thumb, "Your music holds much power and is a great aid to our side against Sauron. It pleases all that has heard it; even my own people stop and listen to your tunes whenever you felt fit to play the flute these past days. You have been through many hardships before you landed on these soils, and…" She trailed off, her hand moving from his cheek to his brow, where his lightning bolt scar still stood, proud and defiant. The next words she spoke were murmured but still everyone heard, "save for that one mar, you are completely fair, almost elven, or beyond elven, enchanting. You were once Man, but aren't anymore. Women and men both envy your looks. Do you have an inkling of that? Only your eyes though, your eyes belie your life." Her hand fell to her side.

Before taking his leave, Harry looked back to the members of the Fellowship. The Hobbits looked at him with guilty faces; he nodded to them and gave a hopeless shrug. To the dwarf and elf, he gave identical farewells, hoping that they would take the subtly message and maybe be slightly affronted. To Aragorn, he gave a respectful sweeping bow, one fit for a King. To Boromir, he leveled his stare, silently warning him of his consequences if he does not resist the temptation of power. To the One Ring, he threw his entire contempt and hoped that it withered under his wrath.

oOoOo

And suddenly, it was all as it once was, except for the small fact that Hedwig was in Rowin, Harry was away from human contact and again with his familiar and his music. Spurning him on, making him quick with haste, his music also whispered to him, between notes that hum into nature, to head north, back to where his grief had originated, back to Moria and the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm.

He entered again through the entrance and down the stairs at a light jog, away from the light at his back; the rhythmic poundings of drums were gone, to his greatest relief. A wind picked up and a low howl resonated from the chamber, it looked much bigger without the Balrog. There was no life. Once again, Harry wondered how can Gimli and his brethren live in a dark world, '_How can this be enjoyable? I can't even imagine the stories that Gimli told me of livery happening here._'

One foot in front of the other, he stepped onto the Bridge, testing his weight on the cracked surfaces, feeling Gandalf's magic like a warm touch surge upwards and stop at his knees. He stood at the jagged edge of the bridge, halting halfway at the bridge where the drop went down to the endless deep. Kneeling down and brushing his fingers against the edge, he fancied that he saw Gandalf's hand marks clawing and gripping the stone before sliding down to the abyss. His hand knocked a stray stone with some dirt off the edge, making them fall down and down and down, silently… silently…

His breathing grew quicker; his eyes darted up to empty air, seeing a memory of a beast with horns of a devil, wielding a fiery whip. A familiar, soft hiss came out from his cloak, _&It is gone, Wise One.&_

_&I know, Arwen.& _He then addressed the empty air,_ &I am here. Now what?& _Silence. Harry sighed and slowly stood with creaking joints, wiping his hands on his pants.

Flute to his lips, Harry played a soft tune with third intervals, dancing to an unsteady tempo; it was a new song that had never been heard before to anyone in this world or his own. The wizard had no idea what he was playing; his fingers moved on their own accord, the magic in his piece took over, faster and sure. Loose dirt at his feet was brushed aside; he stood in a small circle of swirling wind. Something stirred in the air, someone whispered in his ear, "Jump, little Istar." The voice was gentle and low. Alarmed, he stopped playing, but he could still hear the tune, continuing onto another motif, continuing strong, fueled by something ethereal. "Jump, little Istar." The voice repeated.

The wizard peered over the edge, his feet refused to move. There was no bottom to where he was heading, or it was so deep that he couldn't hear the falling stone hit the ground. Why should he rush into the unknown? Will his thoughtless actions harm another, or even kill (like Sirius)?

Shuffling sounds were distant but coming ever closer, he looked up and saw small shadows on the other side of the bridge, an army of orcs were pressing ever closer. They looked like ants pushing forward at a fast speed; he heard drums again. They were still so far away that their faces were too small to see their expressions, which were sure to be malicious and evil. He looked down, his music was still strong and clear.

"Jump." The voice repeated. And he did.

oOoOo

He hit the water hard and fast, disorienting him for a time as he stared up at the surface of the water, shimmering something silvery and black, in a limp position, cradled by the water, his hair floating in his face and his cloak in suspension at his sides. Arwen curled tightly around his neck, making him wonder whether snakes can hold their breaths underwater and making him hope for the sake of magic that the snake better _be_ breathing when all of this was over and done with. '_It's not really that I feel the urge to breath, I feel no need of it. How interesting… Well… No time to waste.' _Regaining his bearings, he tossed his head back, arching his spine, and kicked as hard as he could, diving down, deeper and deeper, with his hands in front, not that he could see in front of his face. His legs made scissoring motions to the best of their abilities.

He dimly wondered, as he ventured farther down, how long it has been since he took his last breath of air and whether he is already dead or not. No, wait, it can't be that he is already dead; he could still hear his heart beating… or is that the drums above? He can't tell, hasn't he, somewhere in his journey in this new world, turned immortal?

Harry squinted his eyes, farther down was a small light, white and pure, but dimming. His hands gripped a rise in the sea, some rocky formation, and he pushed himself onward, legs unmoving in order to save energy for the trip back up, and allowed the weight of his clothing pull him down. The light came from the staff, Gandalf's staff, and by it, he could see the shadows of the Istar's form, of his tattered robes and cloak, and his face, lined with wrinkles and age spots. But the Istar looked to be in a peaceful slumber and… Harry glanced at the staff again; somehow his power is still with him and... Gandalf wasn't alive, nor was he dead.

There was something reflecting the light from the staff, a nail on a dark claw… The wizard grabbed onto a rock and braced himself, legs twisting in the air. He turned his head and witnessed the entirety of the Balrog. Harry scrambled back, fighting the urge to scream as he craned his head; the monster was still and dead and horrible. The body was black and sucked in all light that was aimed towards it, the huge arms and legs were twisted in a position that indicated broken bones. There were bits of rotting flesh floating around the body by the currents; Harry wondered morbidly whether its flesh was the source that made all the fish disappear. Its head was tilted back, its mouth was agape, and its face was unreadable, as monsters don't show many emotions that are usually seen in other species. In the other hand was the whip of fire, now extinguished, clenched tightly and possessively.

Fighting his curiosity to get a better look, he turned back to the fallen Istar and swam over to his side. With a finger, he shifted a bit of hair from the old man's face. The same voice, gentle and low, said to him, "Eru gives you the task to heal Mithrandir. Allow the magic of your flute to wash over him and then take him into the world of Light were his path begins. You will aid him. He shall become Gandalf the White."

Harry's eyes softened and took Gandalf the Grey into his arms. He looked up and the upward journey to dry ground, and then he kicked and propelled himself up.

oOoOo

Harry Potter noisily sucked in air into his lungs as his head burst through the surface. At his first breath, all the pain and the need for oxygen that was muted by his submersion underwater suddenly hit him full force, his muscles screamed for air, he gasped, stretching his lungs to their full extent. He tugged his burden with him, making sure that the Istar's head was also above the water and with his legs and one arm, he paddled clumsily to shore, a black sandbank that hugged the cliff. After confirming that his familiar was still alive and well, if not slightly shaken, he dragged himself and Gandalf onwards, his feet sinking into the sand. His hands were shaking as he tugged and pulled the old man fully out of the water and face up onto the beach. And then, he collapsed, limbs sprawled out, chest heaving, his muscles burned.

He looked to his left and saw Gandalf's side profile, "You also planned this too, didn't you?" He managed to croak out between air intakes, laughing weakly, "Old man," he muttered fondly, resting his head on the sand, "you take too much of my energy. Better be worth it. The evil is above us… No, I can't hear them anymore and there's no passage to where I am, I… apologize… will need to rest first before I can help you, Mithrandir." Fatigue closed his eyes and the sounds of the water lapping at his feet slowly lulled him to sleep.

oOoOo

His dream contained a pure whiteness that made all else vague. Sounds of wings, Hedwig alighted upon his shoulder and nipped his ear affectionately. _&Someone calls for your wisdom, Wise One,&_ Arwen hissed at his collar.

Harry turned around and momentarily paused at the sight of the man before him, then inclined his head "Greetings, Boromir."

The man was dressed in the same clothing and armor as Harry had last seen him. Standing still, the man stared at him in awe and fear, before bowing to his knees. The dark haired boy cocked his head to the right in puzzlement at the intense reaction he got from the once proud Son of Denethor. Arwen decided to relieve him of his confusion, _&This is your realm, Wise One, of dreams. You are in your element and therefore, you present your most magnificent and true form for all to see. His mortal eyes could barely accept your fairness.&_

Harry blinked and stepped forward, extending a hand out to the man and pulled Boromir to his feet. "Do not bow to me." Harry circled the man, noting the circular puncture wounds '_Arrows' _that were on his chest. The answer was on his tongue, "you are dead." The wizard voiced his realization with amazement, "And you're here, with me." The warrior stiffened but still remained silent, his eyes were sorrowful but still steel-like in their regards to him. But the man had fallen, his soul was tainted, Harry easily guessed Boromir's cause of death and by the way Boromir's eyes flashed, he knew it too. Hedwig hooted mournfully and flapped her wings twice on his shoulder. The warrior wordlessly handed over a gift, two pieces of the horn of Gondor. '_They were broken because his will was broken by the One Ring._' Harry looked up inquiringly, "Are you mute?"

_&I sense that he is able to talk, but chooses not to. The Ainur beyond tells him not to, to teach him humbleness.& _Arwen murmured at his side, _&And now he is with us.&_

_&Are we to continue his studies?& _Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "What am I to do with you?" He closed his eyes at the silence he got as a response and looked to the side and the all-consuming white-ness and pondered for some seconds. He turned back to the man, tucking the broken halves of the Horn away, and observed closely. "You are tainted. It, however, cannot be allowed for you essentially represent all of Man, you are a symbol of a race, you cannot be seen like this, so the Higher Beings sought for you to relearn. You have role in this war that is still not done and apparently, you still have to learn to be meek. Are you…" He met the man's eyes head-on and was the first to break his gaze, "ashamed of what you have done? Have you died nobly? You walk a line between weakness and strength. You cannot interact and speak with the Living though you will have some abilities that will be noted later in the future, you will not be seen, you are a spirit… For some reason, they decided to bring you to me. I wonder why." He tapped his chin and stepped back.

Hedwig opened her wings and glided over to the fighter and perched on his right shoulder. Arwen retreated back into her warmth.

"You will not be with me, I have my own task to fulfill, but I will see you constantly. What you are experiencing is what in my world we call Purgatory; Purga, we purge our mistakes and follies and we relearn and are born anew." Harry said, listlessly, as if the information was just beginning to enter his head. He reached up to the man's face, his hand going cleanly through his being. "When you wake up, you will not be acknowledged. Walk to Gondor, go to Minas Tirith, you will regain more of your humanity soon I should hope." The apparition was slowly fading away; Harry smiled at him, "Good-bye."

When the wizard woke up with the Istar at his side and his body drenched and cold, he was not surprised to see the broken parts of the Horn of Gondor in his hands.

oOoOo

They were on the border of the forest and the grasslands.

As he played the flute over Gandalf, a soft lullaby that reminded him of a woman's soprano, he observed the Istar whose skin began to regain its color, whose robes started to lighten in color, whose hair was turning white. The tree limbs above him stirred, causing the shadow patterns on the aged Istar's face to move in patches and spots, lights moved to his cheek and then back. Harry doesn't know what he is playing but he knows that the music he chose was right, judging by the way the ambient magic in the world flocked to Gandalf's very being and bathed him in its power. He could feel his own power channeling the ambient magic, rushing past him in a euphoria sensation, concentrating on awaking Mithrandir.

"Thank you, Young Istar, you have done well." A bodiless voice whispered. Harry stopped his playing, well aware that the music was still, through a metaphysical momentum, circulating, and that his body was fading away into nothingness.

oOoOo

The next thing he knew, he was standing on the top of the hill where he had nearly stepped onto Arwen. Bemused, he checked the undersides of his feet in case there was a repeat of circumstances, '_huh. The Horn of Gondor and my flute are with me… Fawkes' feather too. What happened? Did they use some transporting spell, like apparition? Well, all my body parts are with me and it didn't feel unpleasant at all, though I don't appreciate getting dropped off to whatever parts on the Ainur's whims. Why did they send me here?'_

"Young Istar, we give you a temporary haven," The voice murmured, "Rest, you cannot run away from the Darkness forever. We will see you again."

Startled, he turned his head to the sound,"Wait! Temporary? Darkness? How much evil will there be? What do you mean?" He pivoted on his foot and saw no signs of human civilization save for a couple of houses over the horizon, "Hello? Hello?"

_&They don't stay long. We should enjoy our peace for as long as possible. Rowin is in the distance.& _Speaking excitedly_, _Arwen flicked out her tongue twice, _&I love the grasslands. The vermin are plentiful and fat and in Rowin, they are picked out by humans and fed to me personally. I miss the luxurious life.& _Harry sighed in resignation.

oOoOo

"_This metamorphosis-into-an-immortal business is unsettling, Hedwig_," Harry sighed. The owl, perched on top of a wooden perch at the foot of the stairs that were outside the house, hooted twice and turned her head a full one-eighty. Harry stared at his familiar disapprovingly, "_You know I hate it when you do that_. _Makes me feel as if my own head is turning like a screw._" Hedwig turned her head back around flapped her wings in an insulted manner. Seeing the owl's affronted glare, the wizard sighed, "_Sorry, just tense. That's all."_

He sat outside the front door of Imiram and Patrix's humble abode, both mother and father extremely happy to see him come back home. Some fireflies flew lazily in meaningless patterns above a nearby bush; insects made chirping noises in the shadows of the setting sun. Harry Potter stared at the back of his hand, the skin was slightly tanned but flawless, no wrinkles- Imiram and Patrix are growing older but he isn't. The couple have more age-lines around their faces from years of happiness and hard labor, but he, he looked the exact same from when he first entered this world. The couple, when confronted with this perplexity, merely shrugged and told him that, "It is an extreme honor to be held in high esteem by an Istar."

He absentmindedly stroked Atricia's hair, which had grown long and tied loosely at the end. The girl was sleeping soundly in his lap and her older brother, Carin, who had begun to hit an awkward growth spurt, was leaning onto his shoulder, slightly snoring. He offered soft smile to both, the two of them haven't forgotten him either and had greeted him with overwhelming enthusiasm. They looked so different, coming out of their childish fat and turning into adolescents. Carin began starting to work around the fields and Atricia has been watching her mother cook and slicing the vegetables for the family. It's so hard to believe that outside of this town, there lurked an evil in the darkest lands, planning a war to slaughter mercilessly thousands of innocents. The roads were empty; the villagers were inside their hovels preparing their evening meals. At the end of the street, in the distance, was a small group of children laughing and kicking around a ball. Harry's hand stalled mid-stroke through the young girl's hair.

"Do you think, Hedwig, that I was too lax with Boromir? I made him walk, is that not enough for him to realize that he's the same as other mortals?" He asked and received a patient hooting sound. "I did it because I felt that when I looked deep into the human psyche, I feel that sometimes, one has to be unattached to any obsession or frivolous thoughts. Boromir's trek will be long and harsh because he cannot ride a horse and he's a spirit. He can only watch and contemplate. He will contemplate his being, of his actions, decisions, and mistakes, of his rights and wrongs. Only then can we introduce him to his home and view it through perfect lenses."

Arwen was in the sun, bathing in its waning warmth, Hedwig bobbled her head and screeched. The setting sun colored the sky in pastels of orange, red, and purple, quickly changing as it sank into the mountains, no two seconds were alike. The wizard pulled his cloak tightly around him and looked down at his two sleeping charges, deciding to give them a few more minutes of slumber before rousing them to wash themselves.

"How can I know what one must do to purify one's soul? How am I suppose to know what is good for a man after he's dead? What gives me the power to judge the Scales of Fate, to weigh a heart? Does turning into an immortal land me with not only responsibilities but also more coveted knowledge?" He bowed his head and hugged his knees, "I don't feel smarter… I don't know what I was doing before and during the time I was doing it, like someone is in my head, digging out memories that I never partook in. Is this what it means to be an Istar? Is this 'wise?'" He smiled ruefully, "How many years has it been since I arrived to this world? I have just about accepted my situation and have long given up any hope of returning back home to… England. Truth be told, I think I prefer this world over the other, I'm not the Boy-Who-Lived, I'm someone who has began to set out to create his own path. At least here, I am not deceived and secretly manipulated, as well, I am also loved. I have a home, where people are, to come to." The sun disappeared over the horizon at his last words, "It's not the best, but it's what I have, and it's better than before. But sometimes… I miss my previous life and the promises I had there."

oOoOo

In his dreamscape, Harry examined his perfect, unmarred, hands, casually talking to the son of the Steward of Gondor, "I was once human, you realized." He waved his hand- a high-back, cushioned and well-decorated chair appeared, "Do sit down." The man sat.

Silence. After exactly four seconds, Harry James Potter began to speak, never once looking at the man's inquisitive and impatient stare, never once even glancing in the man's direction. Harry spoke with his left hand angled out like he was catching raindrops, "I guess that's why the Higher Beings wanted me to guide you through your death, because I too, long ago, was once mortal. I suppose they thought that I wouldn't necessarily empathize or pity you, but to gain a deeper understanding than the others. Why, I don't understand why, Mithrandir would have done a better job if he was in my position, but these are trying times and I guess I was the one with that specific short straw.

"We're similar, you and I." Hedwig landed on his shoulder the moment he clasped his hands behind his back, seemly very interested in the whiteness of the grounds, "I was noted for my bravery and noble personality. I was a noble person, I had many people scrutinizing my every moments, I had to inspire those younger than me. And for what? I've gone away from them, changed; I'm not the same person anymore. But change is never complete. I still…" He closed his eyes, "remember. I see a stranger's life."

'_Gryffindor would've loved you to be in his house, Boromir. I can bet Fawkes' feather to that statement' _He kept walking around the man, but was constantly turning his head away, to prevent himself from seeing the other being. As the dreamscape faded into a dirt ground and the outside walls of a house, he heard, from the Son of Denethor, a low humming sound to a song.

oOoOo

He sat at the kitchen table, playing his flute, as the household broom moved on their own accord, sweeping dust out of the room, and the wet rag slid across the kitchen counter. Imiram was chopping the vegetables swiftly (she didn't trust Harry with the knives) and Atricia was throwing them into the pan over the fire, lit up by Harry's magic. The vegetables sizzled and steamed on contact. He stopped his music; his lips lingered on the flute's mouthpiece, and watched in fascination as his magic still moved the cleaning items around.

'_It's been doing that lately. After I begin a song, I don't even have to finish it and the things that I want to move will still move and the music that I have in mind will still play and be heard by everyone. I wonder how much willpower plays a part in my magic.' _He hypothesized that it must be Fawkes' feather that increased his magical power exponentially. Twirling said feather, red as fire and unnaturally warm, he mused, '_It's so warm against my hand. Sometimes I wonder if it's sentient.'_

Harry heard clangs of steel at the window, Imiram shot a worried glance outside, "My husband is starting to teach Carin how to swordfight. Most boys start at Carin's age, if not older, but these are hard times. I hope Patrix will be lenient though, even if the swords are horribly blunt, there is a slight chance of broken bones" Imiram squinted more closely and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, "It looks like Patrix is slow in his attacks, so there's probably bruises. Oh dear," and in a typical motherly fashion, she placed her hand against her cheek in a universal sign of worrying, "I have friends who have sons who also started their training with the blade and I heard many stories of whiny boys in pain running to their mothers to complain." She smiled wiry and engrossed herself once more in her cooking.

The fire crackled under the pan, the cooking vegetables sent steam and smoke through a hole… vent… in the ceiling. The music still made the broom sweep up a small pile of dust, merrily. Arwen curled around Harry's arm, completely butter and languid against his warmth. He petted the snake on the head and continued to listen to the sounds outside: of premature war, of shouts of encouragement.

Atricia sang softly under her breath, "_A sword shall run through the Witch-King of Angmar. For no man can kill the Witch-King, then who shall but not a man._" She dumped another handful of peppers into the pan and, on her toes, rested her chin on the counter. "_Without the slayer of the Witch-King, Gondor shall fall. Gondor shall fall_. _Without he who flies to fight, what shall go wrong? All will fall._"

Harry blinked and twisted his neck. The world tilted and slowed in his mind, he saw a spinning gold right with runes embedded on the inside, falling into a pit of lava. With his slowing heart beats pounding in his ears muting the majority of the noises, he concentrated on Atricia's singing as she repeated the end chorus, slowly mouthing the words, "_Without he who flies to fight, what shall go wrong?" _In his mind, he saw monsters, orcs, large and terrible with evil, cutting down man with their horrible weapons. The vision morphed; he saw orcs and trolls, staircases, creatures, and catapults on a field. The orcs placed the heads of man, helmets and all, onto the bearer on the catapult and launched them at a white city. _" …All… Will… Fall…"_

oOoOo

One evening, when the kids were with Patrix and the kitchen just consisted of him and she, Imiram paused in her cooking, "Carin's too young to fight, Harry." She said heartbrokenly, breaking him out of his reverie. Her eyes were unfocused, tears fell from her face, "when the time comes, I don't want him near a sword at all. I want my babies to survive, I want them to run away to safety, even if… even if I'm not there."

oOoOo

"What we have is something called a 'will'" Harry informed the man in another dream, tapping his fingers on the white wall, "Sometimes, one's measure is only based upon his or her willpower." His fingers felt rough against the insides of his palms, calluses and scars from his previous life seemed to struggle to exist upon his skin, reappearing and vanishing at regular intervals. His Umbridge's scar was still there- _I must not tell lies._ "In my world, we call it tough skin, other calls it stubbornness, and others call it pride. But willpower only bleeds into those categories. Willpower is the ability to resist the temptation: what temptations? To take, to stop, to go, anything that's not right. And you know it's not right, don't you? And you still do it, none-the-less, because you're pulled in, and you can't stop."

He pivoted on his heels and observed the warrior. Boromir's hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles rivaled the whiteness of the background, small droplets of blood dripped from his hands, not too much, but enough to stain his white skin and the white ground. His hands slowly released their tension, the crescent shaped-wounds on his palms slowly began to fade.

The man was still humming his song, as if believing that music can help him, in what way, the wizard wasn't so sure: to create a barrier between himself and the truth or to create a means easier to accept the truth. The man's eyes were proud, they bore into him as a challenge, as if declaring that he will not bow down to those lower in his station, that he, Harry Potter, had to first prove himself before the lessons can begin. But Boromir will not move, his back was straight, he stared forwards like a statue. He was prideful, he will not admit wrong, at least not outwardly. But was he listening?

Harry smiled grimly. "Am I getting through you?"

Nothing emitted from the warrior's lips except a small hum, a tune of his childhood.

oOoOo

His Utopia broke apart at dawn, arrows flew into the building and the outer lines of the houses in Rowin caught fire. Harry jolted out of his bed when the first attacks hit and stumbled out of his bed, grabbing Arwen in a most undignified fashion, and struggled to put on his clothes and cloak.

The truth was, he had been dreading this day for a long time, to have it finally upon him was, he shamefully admitted, a relief. Imiram and Patrix had coached him to his duties to the children till he could recite them in his sleep. He sprinted into the other rooms, the master bedroom was empty, Carin was ready but he had to help Atricia gather her needed belongings. His right hand held onto his flute as he rushed into the stables with the two children at his side, dodging flying boulders that crashed into homes.

The stables had run out of horses; Harry rushed to the edges of the village and away from the mountains. The kids refused to cry.

All around him were people running to and fro; as cliché as it sounded, he saw mothers holding their babies in bundles of blankets, trying their best to guard their toddlers with their bodies. The men were shouting and grabbing any sort of weapons they can and meeting the enemy head on; he saw Patrix with two swords, fully decked out in armor. "Come on," he whispered urgently, checking over his shoulder, "We have to go. Tell me if either one of you gets tired so I can carry you, but don't fall." There was an army far away in masses of black, he could've sworn that they looked familiar, and then he heard the sounds of war drums. The army swarmed, the orcs roared, they cried out in glee and fell upon the fighting men and they were getting closer. They weren't above bodily tearing out throats with their rotten and sharp teeth. One of the orcs was latched onto a man's face, moving in jerking and rough motions; its back was to Harry, leaving it to imagination to decide what happened to the human. The wind blew the scent of burnt wood and flesh into his nose; he willed his legs to move faster.

Past the streets, houses, and other people (Harry used his music to speed up); the group of three was by the lakeside, where to his surprise Imiram was waiting for them with a decent mare. Imiram called them over and took Atricia and flung her to the saddled horse's back. Without orders, Carin hoisted himself up and behind his sister. The woman looked at Harry, "Istar. I want you to join them."

Harry's eyes widened, "No!" He exclaimed, shaking his head vehemently, "you can't stay behind, you're their mother! You will only be killed. I-"

"I'll be nothing more than dead weight." Imiram interrupted, touched her children's cheeks and coaxed, "Hush. Hush. Don't cry, my little ones." She handed over a filled bag of survival items and spare foods, "I want you to run to Edoras. We're the first village to fall and Rohan was not expecting this ambush; we need to tell the King." She stepped back; Harry stepped forward and mounted the horse that pawed the ground in agitation. He looked past the woman. The village behind her began to smoke, Harry tore his gaze away from the carnage, "Harry, Istar, I know you can keep them safe, I trust you with my whole heart. Don't stop. Don't stop till you have reached Edoras." Her faced was aged and dark with despair.

Atricia sniffed, "Mum. Don't…" Imiram bowed her head and made urgent motions, biding them to leave.

'_She wants to stay; she's reluctant to leave because Patrix is still there, fighting. I don't know whether he's alive or not, but she refused to leave without him… There's no choice, not when she can't be swayed. I don't even know if my magic will be useful in this endeavor, I can't carry people if the people are moving, I might drop her and harm her. The horse doesn't have much space. There's no choice.' _Harry understood and swallowed thickly, "Hyah!" He yelled, shaking the reins and applying pressure to the horse's flanks. The mare shook her head and cantered off which soon turned into a gallop. The village of Rowin were in ruins, the army of orcs were quickly surging forward with the power of none-other. He looked back at the shrinking figure that hasn't moved from her place, but he didn't stop.

oOoOo

True to Imiram's word, they did not stop, only to rest when the horse truly tired out, but even then. The horse was extremely reliable, bred for extra endurance and it was well-after nightfall at the end of the first day that the mare, Alagos, showed signs of fatigue. And for nights afterwards, he and the two children started a routine. During the day, Harry would sleep as well as he can on Carin's back as Carin would lead the horse. During the night, Harry would take over the reins, set up camp, cook foods for the next day, and watch over Carin and Atricia. There was barely enough food to support them all. Hedwig had helped immensely by bringing fresh game, but Harry was in the habit of leaving smaller portions to himself and more to his companions.

He didn't feel bad for caring them, they were, essentially… to an extent, his own. He felt attached to them and wanted the best for them. Hedwig hooted and dropped more dead rabbits into his lap, which he proceeded to gut and to clean. Throwing more dry sticks into the fire, he casted a sorrowful glance at the two children sleeping closely together, linking their hands together, '_poor little ones. So young, they shouldn't go through this now.' _Arwen, thank Merlin, could find her own prey without any help. On nights like this, he played on his flute softly to lullabies he had heard over the years to get his two charges to sleep more comfortably. When they were asleep, he petted their pretty heads and tucked the blankets underneath their chin so they wouldn't shiver.

Alagos was a well-tempered mare, in fact, she was perfect. Because of her exceptional performance and her name, Harry suspected that she was bred by the elves, either stolen or given to the villagers of Rowin as a gift. She never gave any trouble and seemed to understand what was going on beyond her immediate surroundings; she could suffice on water and grass and didn't need much sleep to stay strong. The wizard suspected that she was touched by magic; she held some humanity within her that made her smarter than normal horses with personality. '_Imiram planned this escape well,' _he was willing to admit to himself as he fed the fire more sticks, '_why did she do so much for us, me, but sacrificed herself? It's not fair. It's-'_

Days past and they kept moving, over hills and grasslands, looking for the fortress of the Kingdom of Rohan. Days past and bled into one another, they urged the horse to run and tried their best not to think about what or who they had left behind. No one even ventured to talk about Rowin anymore.

"I've been to Edoras, once," Carin once spoke over the fire before he went to sleep, "I think it won't be long before we get there. Almost." Days past and Harry could feel his exhaustion beginning to take a toll on him, but he kept pushing himself.

oOoOo

And one morning, Harry was holding onto Carin to keep from falling, his muscles screamed for nourishment and sleep, his head was bent down, silently observing the blurred grass and dirt flying past him, when the Alagos slowed to a stop. How much longer was it going to be till they reached their destination? The wizard doesn't think he can hold on anymore, sooner or later, he might just faint while standing. Arwen has been examining him and inquiring worriedly about the state of his health and why there were such darkness under his eyes and why he looked so white. Perhaps he was too heroic for his own good, or suicidal, depending on whom one asks.

"Is this it, brother?" Atricia mumbled; Harry felt a nod from the 'pillow' that he cat-napped on.

The tired wizard looked up.

Instead of never-ending grasslands, he saw civilization. Around a hill were lots of mini houses, huts, and stables not unlike those of Rowin, people bustled about of their business. An old woman was airing her family's laundry, whipping the clothing twice before she pinned them to the line. A man was brushing the horses with his son. Leaning against a wall were rows and rows of spears and scabbards and arrows. On the top of the hill was a square fortress built entirely by stone looking formidable against the cloudy blue sky. From the fortress was a set of stone and wooden steps that carried one into the castle, where flags of a symbolic horse, running, proudly flapped in the wind. But this was more humble than what Harry had expected; the people here were able-bodied peasants, living simple but fulfilled lives. This was Edoras, the center of all of Rohan.

Hedwig swooped low and landed on Carin's shoulder. Harry noticed that he and his companions were attracting odd looks and whispers from the locals.

At the foot of the steps were two men. One had a crown atop his head, looking harsh, touched by the wilderness, but majestic, surveying his subjects and property with the right eye. He had golden hair to his shoulders and a reasonable amount for his beard. The other man had black hair that reached to the nape of his neck, in familiar armor, with the same kingly air around him, if not more, than his companion. Both were still in the prime of their health, each with a sword strapped to their side.

Both of them stared at him in a state shock. "Ahh," Harry muttered, half-dazed and half-relieved, into Carin's ear, "That's Aragorn, one whom I trust; he'll take care of you." He allowed his head to fall back onto Carin's shoulder, feeling difficulty breathing, hitching breaths. His body began to fail at his knowledge that his task was finished.

The world swayed dangerously, he felt nauseous.

When was the last time he had slept properly? When was the last time he had eaten properly? And, at last, totally spent, his duty finished and honor bounded, he felt himself pitching to the side… The ground rushed up beneath him and he blacked out before he had hit the hard dirt with a dull '**Thud.'**


	4. Helm's Deep and Beyond

Author's Note- I realized that I cannot write long chaptered stories because my endurance is simply not that great. It takes way too much effort and time out of me. Maybe one day, when I have this amazing plot bunny and all the free time in the world… hmmm (side glances at the calendar where at the bottom of the month, written in red, capital letter and underlined twice, says, "SUMMER!") I got the middle to end of the story outlined. I just need to figure out what to write now. And remember, dear readers, don't give me high expectations. Keep in mind that everything that the Fellowship and Harry will face is on a larger scale, larger obstacles, larger numbers of enemies, etc. to accommodate the fact that Harry is in the story.

Note on Harry's personality in a simple paragraph. First he was numb, but this is similar to an experience he had before in his life (basically every shock he ever had in his entire life.) Then he was in denial and refused to integrate himself into the new culture. Then he was an unwilling participant in the war and decided to take a bystander view of the event but his hero complex still creeps up at random intervals. He's yet to accept this place as his home.

**Is anybody out there willing to beta?**

Note- I don't own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter. And I don't know any British cussing. There will be no pairings. I liberally took lines from the book. The timeline of the story is a mix of movie and book.

"_Speaking_"= English. '_Thoughts'_= English.

_&Speaking&_= Parseltongue

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

_A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover_

oOoOo

**Tales of a Wanderer: ****Helm's Deep and Beyond**

oOoOo

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

oOoOo

The awaking was much less dramatic than the fall. After spending nights in dreamless sleep, he slowly cracked his eyes open and looked across and over. The first thing he noticed was that he was in a comfortable bed, the second was that his limbs felt like they had iron weights hanging off every joint, the third was that he was awfully hungry. There was a crick in his neck. He stayed in the same position for another two hours, wasting the day away listening to the birds sing beyond his window. The door on the opposite wall opened, admitting Aragorn and a woman whom he had never seen before into the room. Harry delicately raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to try to question, "Wh-"before descending into painful coughs. The woman, who he assumed now to be a Healer, rushed over with a cup and a jug full of water. It felt like cool ice on the wounds to his throat; he swallowed cleanly and greedily gulped down another cup.

Seconds later, a plate full of soft foods and a bowl of thick soup appeared before him followed by mouth-watering smells. Aragorn helped propping him up against the headboard. He dug into the food with vigor, surprising even himself at how famished he was. Was his own judgment to his health that bad? "Didn't think I would ever be this hungry," he muttered to himself. He knew throughout his life that he had a high tolerance to, well, anything unpleasant, but never to the point of near starvation. He swallowed and had to pause to force the food down his chest. _&Wise One&_ he looked down; Arwen's tongue flicked up to tickle his cheek, _&The reason to your hunger is that you had been commanding your wild magic to force the elvin horse to fly faster; the children could feel it. We've made it to Edoras with unnatural velocity.& _He blinked, leave it to Arwen to provide an answer, he nodded absentmindedly. Degeneration of the body: magic, he must remember, was still dangerous.

When his eating pace had slowed to something reasonable, Aragorn pulled up a chair and sat at his side, his elbows on his knees, "You have been asleep long, Harry. The children are safe and sound; they have been questioning your health." The quirk at the edge of his lips dimmed, "We were all worried after your fall. When you were brought in, you were dangerously pale. Your arrival created quite a stir among King Théoden's subjects." With mouth still half full and feeling completely shameless, he rudely squinted at the Ranger, whose dark eyes were more wizened and held an inner glow.

_He has the makings to be a leader, a ruler._

With the onslaught of respect and fear, Harry achieved a hybrid of a nod and a bow before returning to his food, half aware of what the Healer was telling the man, "… needs sleep and rest. Poor dear, shouldn't eat hard foods for a while… fine in a few days, if his progress rate is stable," meaning that she wants him bedridden as long as possible; she reminded him of Pomfrey. The Healer refilled the cup and placed it at the side before mentioning about her other patients to Aragorn before departing. The door shut. Harry looked at the man through his bangs and sipped his soup.

"Your charges told us the happenings at Rowin; we grieve for your loss." Aragorn handed the cup to Harry when he was just about to reach for it and refilled the cup when Harry had set it back down. The other narrowed his eyes, so the man felt guilty? "Mithrandir is back among our ranks, we are grateful for your help, Istar. But that's perhaps the only positive news I can offer. The Fellowship has been broken. Pippin and Merry are lost. Boromir of Gondor has departed the living. Frodo and Sam are heading on their own to Mordor with the Ring. The rest of the Company resides in these walls. " Aragorn flashed him a smile that wasn't truly confident; there was a hint of boyish charm underneath his age. Then, the man's face hardened, "Saruman's Army from Isengard is advancing. The King of Rohan has decided to hold our last defenses at Helm's Deep." The wizard nodded, not completely comprehending, "Everyone will need to prepare to leave soon, even you."

The wizard stared into Aragorn's eyes and studied them, and then he ruefully smiled, "I thank you for your assistance. Please tell Carin and Atricia that I am well, I am eager to be reunited with them." At the windowsill, Hedwig hooted and partly hid her head underneath her feathers.

oOoOo

"I understand that you wish to stay with your charges?" Gandalf the White asked Harry from his stallion, Shadowfax. Trying his best to not to compare Shadowfax's obvious bulk over Alagos' inferior build, Harry nodded, tugging on the reins, to the delight of Carin and Atricia that sat upon the mare's back. It was his duty to oversee the well-being of Imiram's children. He didn't feel the need to mention that last night, he dreamed of the mother's fearful eyes begging for her children's safety as she was tortured by jeering Orcs.

"Till all is well, Gandalf. If I must say, you've certainly looked better since I've last seen you." He remarked, cocking his head to the right in askance.

"Saruman's treachery harmed the balance of those who wield magic. I was resurrected to become the White Wizard." Mithrandir's gaze pierced through him, "I suspect that you will be given the duties as the Grey Wizard in my place." Well Harry's cloak was becoming quite shabby like Gandalf's before his premature death. Curiosity sated, the wizard glumly nodded, so there was no hope of returning home. Gandalf nodded curtly and urged his horse forward.

"Behold the White Rider!" cried Aragorn, and all took up the words.

"Our King and the White Rider!" The Rohirrim, the Riders, shouted, "Forth Eorlingas!" The trumpets sounded. The horses reared and neighed. Spear clashed on shield. Then the king raised his hand, and with a rush like the sudden onset of a great wind the last host of Rohan rode thundering into the West.

Harry stared at all this tiredly and rubbed his eyes. With one foot in the stirrup and a heave, he was on Alagos's back, behind the children. Once more, he saw Imiram's body impaled upon five swords; an Orc was chewing on her thigh. He took the reins and steeled his resolve which was a far cry from what the Riders had just displayed, "Ok. Let's go."

oOoOo

These sessions with Boromir were making minimal progress. Harry Potter sighed at the man's stubbornness and pride, only thankful that at least the man was listening and comprehending his lessons. Once again, Boromir the Dead sat in a royal chair, routine. Harry walked around him, routine. The latter broached a taboo topic, unusual.

"The One Ring was forged from the depths of Mount Doom, an iconic piece of the darkest magic to have ever existed since Melkor disrupted the balance of the Earth. It," He looked straight into Boromir's gaze, "is evil; it is untouchable. It can ensnare the strongest willed men, like you, who still succumb to his pride of his blood. If you concede a scrape, it will devour the entire. It was designed to break down men and kingdoms. Sauron was Melkor's lieutenant; he was the crafter of the One Ring." Harry looked up and cocked his head, listening to the music that echoed in this place which he now viewed as desolate. No matter how white his dreamscape was, no matter how black reality was, they were one and the same.

"Three Rings for the Elven Kings under the sky," he mumbled, "Narya, Nenya, and Vilya: the only ones untouched by the dark lord. The only ones untainted. Seven for the Dwarf-Lords in their halls of stone; Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die. And the One Ring, the One Ring that Sauron poured all his pour into belongs only to Sauron. The Ring corrupts. Everyone else will fall to its allure, it's too strong." He smiled at the man, "As for I, I cheated with my own bit of protective magic." Through his shirt, he could feel Fawkes' feather warming his skin, actively providing the music in this scape.

He spoke with a tinge of amusement, "Frodo Baggins of the Shire is the destined Ringbearer. Conceptualize, a mere Hobbit, a race that most deemed inferior is our key to salvation. But a creature of the Earth, known to be steadfast and strong, his will is to be unbending like the Earth and he was able to resist the call of the Ring for long, even as it touched his skin. But," he paused in his pacing, staring out into the white openness, "That strong will is fading fast as is time. But Frodo's will is to be the strongest ever in Middle-Earth, anyone else who takes the role of Ringbearer will surely fall faster than he, but his own will is fading. I fear…" Harry speculated and shook his head. "It is of no use; we cannot do anything but hope." He faced the man, "Tell me, Boromir of Gondor, what have you seen in your Journey in the Land?"

He was astonished that he received an answer at all, this was the first time the Gondorian warrior spoke after his death and the news he brought was not positive. "Three days after my death, my brother found my funeral boat."

oOoOo

"_Three days after my death, my brother found my funeral boat. I would never wish for Faramir to find out in such a manner and I fear for him, due to my father."_

Helm's Deep was impressive as a fort, but was there enough people to defend it? The walls were thick and solid, making Harry wonder what the bloody histories that had dried here were. The host had rode on and quickly; need drove them and the fear that they had come too late. There were distances to go, about, someone had said, "more than forty leagues from Edoras to the fords of Isen." It took more than two days of endurance and speed to reach their destination. During this time, Harry had allowed Carin to control Alagos and had dozed off on the boy's back by Atricia's encouragement. Fatigue was beginning to come back to him as, ironically, a brewing storm. Legolas and the daughter of Théoden were among the first to have noticed and, strangely, had made a point to ride at his side to make sure he wouldn't fall. No one tried to initiate small talk.

He wondered if he was riding towards his death, there was a sense of impending doom within the host that permeated the air. The pessimism couldn't be defeated, no matter how many lame stories Gimli told his audience about bearded female dwarves becoming indistinguishable from male dwarves.

They reached Helm's Gate. A man from the head of the group said, "Behind us in the caves of the Deep are three parts of the fold of Westfold, there reside the old and young, children and women. But great store of food, and many beasts and their fodder, have also been gathered there." That comment made the young wizard shiver. Yes, this place can either become a fort to decimate enemies or a last prison before everyone is slaughtered. There will be a courageous stand and lives will be lost.

'_Will I be able to participate in the ensuing battle?_' Harry thought, staring down at his hands as the men rode up a ramp and into Hornburg. '_I have no experience in swords, only spells. I've never even killed and am not skilled, despite anyone's beliefs. I'm not a fighter._' He joined the civilians and passed the warriors at their posts. He rode past Gimli and Legolas, the former leaning against the breastwork upon the wall and the latter sitting above the parapet, fingering his bow, and peering into the gloom. '_No_,' he determined, '_I'm not fit for killing. No matter how eager I was to end Voldemort, this is a real battle, not a minor skirmish. I will not join them; I'll protect the helpless and my own two children._'

Hours passed. Scattered fires still burned far down in the valley. The hosts of Isengard were advancing in silence now. Their torches could be seen winding up the coomb in many lines. Harry had been moving supplies to and fro from soldiers to civilians when he had peaked over the walls and heard yells and screams and fierce battle cries. "Harry!" Atricia yelled between the legs of the infantry, "Something is wrong with Carin!" A soldier had picked up her struggling form and she tried to run, making no progress, to him, "Harry! Harry!"

Flaming brands appeared over the brink; men came galloping back over the field and up the ramp to the gate. "The enemy is at hand!"

oOoOo

Carin was deadly feverish; while mopping the boy's brow, Harry has been filling the silence with the tunes that he hummed. He guessed that the time was past midnight. The heavy air outside migrated into the caves and there were sounds of loud cracks and loud, rolling thunder. "Is brother alright?" Atricia anxiously asked as she cleaned and wrung a rag with hot water. Taking the rag, Harry couldn't bring himself to answer her question. Of all the timing that the patient had, he just had to choose _now_ to walk on the brink of death. But his non-answer was Atricia's answer; she lowered her head down to the warm bowl and didn't look back up. Harry sighed and pulled the blanket up to Carin's neck; who was partly unconscious, muttering soothing words in both Westron and English. With a waved, Harry motioned Atricia to come near and began describing the procedure to cool down her brother's temperature and the need for constant vigilance.

The wizard stood up, patting dust off his pants, and looked around the hovel. He saw the old and the young and the women and children trying to become one with the dirt walls, which wasn't too hard to do considering the filthy state everyone was in and their non-descript brown cloaks that probably used dirt as its dye. They acted like cornered animals, staring with accusing eyes, their hands clawing at their cloaks to hide themselves deeper into their niche. Even the babies were silence; the only sounds that echoed in this desolate area were sniffs and shuffling. Hedwig hooted from her perch near the ceiling. Arwen was curled at Carin's pillow side, fast asleep. Harry looked in the direction of the exit, hearing the remnants of battle sounds. A few ideas floated in his head, jostling each other for dominance till one came to the forefront and stubbornly stayed. With his mind made up, not before checking Carin's temperature and Atricia's progress, Harry headed out to the defense lines.

In between the occasional branched lighting strikes that smote down upon the eastward hills, the sky was utterly dark. Rain was lashing down; arrows as thick as rain came whistling over the battlements; they came like rain, in torrents at different intervals, and fell clinking and glancing on stones. Harry dove under a body where an arrow has found its mark and took a moment to revise his plans. Underneath the human shield, he could see other victims of the barrage of arrows; some were still groaning and moving while others weren't. 'Damn my hero-complex. After all these years, I see that it still hasn't died out,' he thought grimly, wondering about the morals and ethics of using a corpse as protection. His Slytherin side brutally pushed the thought away, better making a use for this dead man than nothing. He is still alive and well and at best, he would like to keep it that way.

He lunged toward the nearest wounded man who was crying for help and used all his strength to pull the man out of the majority of harm's way. Trying to sooth the hysterical cries, after taking the helmet off, he wrenched out the arrow and wrapped gauze around the Rohirrim's neck. A wise man once said that a man's true character will be revealed seconds before his death.

At Harry's right side, he heard through the rain Gimli counting his kills, in some sort of killing-spree competition with Legolas. "Twenty-two!" Hack. "Twenty-three!" Hack. "Twenty-four!" Hack. His eyes roamed the walls, puzzled when he saw around two-hundred what looks to be elf warriors fighting among men. With bewilderment, he realized that he was staring at Haldir, the marchwarden of Galadriel's kingdom, with his bow and arrow and his sword strapped to his side.

The Uruk-hai were putting up a frontal assault underneath at the foot of the wall. Harry stared at the carnage with horror; this is _killing, _it's _wrong._ His face was wet due to the rain and his tears. With his rough patch-work on the Rohirrim man done, Harry placed the helmet back onto the man and propped him up against the inner wall. The smell of blood was so strong it was like he was in a room full of rusted iron. He resisted the urge to gag.

'Orcs are creatures of evil,' he chanted in his head, 'Orcs are creatures of evil. Orcs are creatures of evil. Orcs are creatures of evil.' He smiled ruefully, 'Then again, I'm used to peace. From what I heard, this world is ravaged by battles. I know I can't kill, but they can. They can.' He vainly tried to rub the wetness from his eyes and thanked whoever decided to correct his eyesight and took out his flute, 'It's intriguing to see how one's upbringing influences one's view of violence. I don't hate any of them for it. We need it. I'm strange for finding it to be disgusting, because the most I've ever done was defend and immobilize.'

He played a tune: several bodies floated an inch above the ground and were quickly rushed to the nearest shelter. Through the rain, he saw a white shape coming, steadily increasing in size till, "Hedwig! What are you doing here, girl?" The owl dropped a bucket of aid supplies in front of him, and then she settled on his shoulder, nibbled his ear, and then landed on a nearby rock to watch. Harry looked at the make-shift package before him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth; this had 'Atricia' written all over it. One man had a gaping wound through his stomach. Harry shushed the man's whimpers with a touch to his cheek and began to work.

Under his breath, he muttered, "I don't belong here."

oOoOo

His flute was destroyed.

Then again, he should have known that this moment would come, sooner or later. It was inevitable, nothing was ever indestructible, and this new world was like his old, unfair and perilous. He should have learned that when he first arrived. His dependence upon his flute was risky, he knew it, but what could've been done? Maybe he should've made a duplicate; maybe he should've worked to channel magic into something more stable, like a sword; maybe he should've done something more than meditating over his core for better control. Alas, it was too late now.

The enemy probably had known who he was the moment they had seen him because they immediately yelled in their horrid language and rushed at him with their weapons ready. He had tried his common defense, hurrying to get his flute to his lips but they had anticipated his actions. A whipping sound in the air fast approached him. A throwing axe was thrown at him, he ducked, but the steel managed to nick his temple, deep enough to leave a scar, just another one to add to his collection. His flute was no more, damaged beyond repair. The two pieces were flattened when they hit the ground. Splinters flew in every which way. He had thrown his hands up to protect his face, but the pieces of wood embedded themselves in his skin.

For a moment, he was at a lost of what to do. His only anchor to the ambient magic that flowed in this word was completely and utterly destroyed. He didn't know what to do: useless, useless, useless! Fawkes' feather, which was tied around his neck like a safety blanket, was a passive magical object. Harry the Istar turned into Harry the commoner, the commoner who does not have an inkling of self defense other than his own magic.

Hello, my name is Harry, just Harry. I'm going to die soon.

The Uruk-hai, knowing his state, were at a heightened state of bloodlust. His chainmail won't be able to fend off the heavy blows and he was helpless and cornered.

His magic was gone. _His magic was gone._

Strong hands grabbed his side and half pushed and half carried him away from the potential fatal hit. He looked up and instantly recognized his savior. It was only because of Aragorn that he wasn't reduced to mincemeat and Orc-feed and, Merlin damns his life, he now owes the man a life debt.

oOoOo

"It's ok. It's going to be alright, you'll see your family again." Harry soothed the man who had an open wound to his stomach, swallowing the lump of hard guilt in his throat. The blood was free-flowing and the man had gone into shock soon after Harry managed to find him. Even if he had his magic, the wound was too much; the man already lost too much blood. He was too small to restrain the man from shaking violently and at most, he can hope that the man wasn't feeling the pain. Then he noted that the injury had hit the man's spinal column; he probably wasn't feeling much at all.

He ran to the next downed Rohirrim warrior who had, by the feel of it and the man's words, fractured ribs and a broken arm. He was coughing blood: a rib had punctured his lung. "Merlin!" Harry muttered, half panicked, "What do you do with a punctured lung?" And the pattern continued as he transitioned from injured to injured. Some were only knocked out, other's had a caved in skull, some were bruised with shallow wounds, like him, and others had a limb cleanly taken off. Some he could heal but others he had to move aside and leave to die, comforting them as they pass to the afterlife, or wherever their religion dictated them to go.

The loss of his flute gave way to an empty space in his mind. Sometimes, he would revert back to his lost self, standing in the midst of flashing swords, unsure of his next actions. Fortunately, the side-effects weren't as bad as when the elves took his phoenix feather; he had a feeling that the feather had a way of connecting with his soul on some level to provide protection against the darkness that rage in this world. His flute, not so much. So much darkness, so much power, so much bloodshed.

He wondered if he would've been the designated Healer in the Second War against Voldemort if he had not known of the prophecy. No, he had expressed the wish to Professor McGonagall about becoming an Auror, didn't he? The feud between his Transfiguration teacher and that Toad Woman, Umbridge, is still surprisingly clear in his memory. Well, no use on dwelling upon his magic origins, right? He can't use magic now and he can't let that thought hinder him, not now. So his mind moved to other topics. War is…

Well, that would be some assignment for a psychologist, right? Just have a paper, (fill in the blank) like in his Pre-Hogwarts days with the nurse: My parents are… I feel… War is… Harry stared down at his next patient. War is gaping at your non-existent legs because they turned into bloody stumps and yet you are unaware of anything other than your heartbeat. War is that even if you are wearing a helmet that covers the entirety of your head, if the Fates really hate you and against all chances, an arrow will find a way to get to you through the eye slits. War is…

"Can you still walk?" Harry asked hurriedly. The man, no, this one was an elf, nodded. "Ok, this is going to-"And without even finishing, Harry wretched the shoulder back into its socket. The elf took it silently, nothing came through the helmet, and not that Harry should be surprised. The man was probably hundreds of years his senior, maybe even thousands, he probably dislocated his shoulders too many times to count. With another violent heave, Harry jolted the other shoulder back into position and allowed the man to recuperate, before setting off into the rain to look for others in need.

A portion of the wall that he stood by exploded with a blasting fire, throwing Harry into the air and into the wall, at the mercy of a barrage of stones. The shockwave jarred his head and made his teeth shudder in their gums. The Orcs are breaking down the Walls, eager to take it. He groaned and forced his body to rise, it was either pain or death. That was some sort of magic fire; he wondered who could cast it. Who were the other Istari besides Mithrandir and him? He could hear an irritating ringing sound and forced his fingers into his ears, but the ringing did not subside. The fervor from the Orcs beneath had been raised to a pitch of never-ending roars, like a Quidditch stadium of lust (blood or otherwise), except at his old world, no one was dying. Harry saw the elf whose two shoulders he placed back in on his back with a chunk of the wall as big as a millstone in a place that made Harry sure that despite the helmet, the warrior's head was crushed into a pancake. Life was fleeting, one moment you were sure that he was fine and in the other… The body was unmoving and a small pool of blood surrounded the elf's head. The enemy roars grew louder.

Harry winced and looked away.

oOoOo

"Retreat!" The gate began to fall and the Uruk-hai yelled, preparing to charge. The Rohirrim rushed back like a massive wave, but the overall action wasn't orderly. Harry was deep in the mess of bodies, struggling to get out of the armor and weaponry. The wounded were one of the first ones to be carried back; he had done the regulatory sweep but was picked up in a frantic mob. He stumbled into an opening, quite sure that his head is bleeding and he was mildly concussed somewhere. Men were running to his direction in panic, 'So the Orcs are over there.' He dimly thought. Someone yelled the cry for retreat.

"Fall back! Everyone, Retreat!" Somewhere in the midst of battle, he thought he saw the body of Haldir on the ground, but he wasn't sure. At his belt was Patrix's sword, the sword he could never wield, the sword he is sure that he never will wield. He can't fight, he can't defend. 'Sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't able to do anything.' The fires of Orthranc were terrorizing the walls, there were breaches in the stronghold, but Harry couldn't tell where as everyone was everywhere. The people that surrounded him were obeying direct orders and never saw the big picture, therefore, he couldn't either. He stumbled over bodies and stepped over inverted arrow shafts. Where were the other members of the Fellowship? It's been a while since he had last seen them.

Blood flowed from his scalp down, some got into his mouth. He spat out the taste of liquid metal and wiped his brow, looking around to regain his bearings. He couldn't hear properly, everything sounds quite muted. But the Orcs were at his tail, monstrous and hideous and proud to wear every deformity that repulses mankind and they roared a sort of noise that sent tremors down his spine. He had, at least, the sense to run; it was his body on autopilot. But he wasn't running fast enough.

"No!" He cried in desperation. Another infantry of Orcs were coming at the retreating party's left flank, determined to cut the group's path to the doors. Armored Trolls, like back in his first year at Hogwarts, had spiked clubs lumbered into his way. Troll before him, army of Orcs behind him, dear Merlin, he always knew this was going to come but he could never prepare for this. He, Harry James Potter, was actually going to die, wasn't he?

No, can't die yet. Not here, not now… He pulled out Patrix's short sword and waved it threateningly (stupidly) in front of the Troll with a hand. '_Trolls are dumb creatures maybe…_' Harry sidestepped a swing to the ground, a miniature crater forming where he had just been. '_Ok, I change my mind.'_ The club swung down again and this time he tried to parry the blow, only to be pushed to the side. He was separated from the rest of his men, he spat out some blood. What does one have to do to get traction in his shoes? Then again, there was a whole lot of force and momentum behind the push and he- Harry jumped back and felt the air behind the club. He stole a glance behind: a whole legion of orcs, slowly advancing.

Oh fuck.

'_About that meditation on death…'_ Harry ran to his right, avoiding the troll once more, but charging headstrong into a wall of Orcs who were slightly surprised at his brash actions before recovering with malicious grins and leers. Instead of swords, they pulled out their bows and arrows, all the points were pointing at his direction. Harry started and made a motion to move back when the arrows flew at him point blank. Foolishly, he used both his arm and his sword to make a cross shield over the vitals of his body and prayed that he would, somehow, make it out of this battle alive.

Music emerged in his head appeared in a rush of power, a single note, an A#, shrill and loud, till he wasn't sure whether it was in his head or whether everyone can hear it. It felt like someone was hurling stones at a thick blanket that he had pulled over himself as cover. The cloud of arrows made the air before him ripple to some effect and fell to the ground, lost of speed. Harry looked down at his hands in amazement, was that, was that really- Did he just do wand-less magic?

He dove to his right as a club came swinging for his head, going past the stumbling legs of the Troll to face it's rear and to meet the Orc army once again. His feet hit something hard, there was a stone wall behind him, and he was trapped. But still, his mind whirled with the possibilities of his newfound abilities, was that really wand-less magic, something that was rumored only the mages and sorcerers of his old world can accomplish? His breathing accelerated: that was, wasn't it? It was a well formed 'Protego' without the words too. That was supposed to require a lot of energy, at the risk of a severely depleted core. The basics of magic were will, intent, and power. His music had appeared too when he was forming the spell.

This is bloody amazing.

The wall of Orcs this time decided not to toy with him. The leader of the group spat in his direction before shouting his harsh language towards his subordinates. A cry, the Orcs drew their swords and assumed ready position. Harry pushed against the wall and wished that he might become one with the stone. But how was it possible that he could do something like this? It just didn't add up! He's never been powerful when he was little and the ambient magic never allowed him easy access before his flute shattered. But it got the results he needed. Logical or not, he needed to figure out how to duplicate the effects quickly before the attack comes. Another barked order, the Orcs howled and roared and rushed forward.

'Will, Intent, and Power- all I ask for is a solution,' Harry breathed in and out, a soft single melody song drifted past his ears and he wondered where its origins came from: his hands, his head, and the area around him? Something began to brim in his core; it was the ambient magic, entering him with the will of the music. He hazarded a guess that this was another gift of the Ainur. He slowly stretched out his hands, reaching out at the intangible, at the army, and he swore that he saw a glimpse of death. And then, when he could feel his power reaching its threshold, he closed his fist, twisted his wrist, pulled in, and swung to the side.

"Burn," he hissed. From his hand emerged the fury that reached the top of the walls, a being, a creature of sentient fire that grew thicker and thicker in girth as it extended from its anchor. The rain created steam upon contact and did not diminish the fire. At the end was a creature's head, a canine, a snake, something terrible and awe-inspiring that snarled and snapped at the stunned Orcs as it looked down upon them like they were nothing. With one hand still clenched onto an end of the spell, Harry's other hand was extended outward, trying to control the magic that was eager to control him. He had asked for a powerful spell that would smite his enemies from the ambient magic and this is what they gave him, it was too much. The heat made his eyes smart and the hair on his skin sting but he held it in his grasp. The single melody whispered hauntingly in his ears, he was sure that it wasn't just in his head. He wondered whether in his old world, this would count as dark magic. It was an endless battle for dominance till the fire-creature reared and lunged forward.

Through the orange-red fire, Harry could see dim black figures too scared to move. He heard screams of terror.

By the time the creature was sated and Harry was able to wrestle the spell into submission and to cancel, he was standing in a pile of ashes that was quickly disappearing due to the wind and the rain. His sweat mixed with the rain, he dripped with watery black soot. He coughed into his blackened fist and stepped forward, unable to believe that what just happened had just happened. His body was exhausted, his magic reserves was empty. 'Never again. I asked for too much, I can never do that again. I'm too vulnerable afterwards. That spell, that powerful spell, if I hadn't been able to control it, it would've became a wild beast and attack me. Too dangerous. No, I'll never attempt it again, I could've been killed. I can't do this again without learning more.' Harry coughed into his hand and grimaced when he saw black; he had just breathed in some Orc ashes, disgusting.

The music was gone and a pounding headache was beginning to creep in. Small black dots appeared in his vision. He hurried to the doors, which opened to allow him in, and didn't bother to pay any attention to the men gaping at him. Too tired to care, too tired to move, he wanted to retreat back to the caves where he can pretend that he is a Healer again. That magic, that power, can he master the technique? He needs to look into this later, this demands further research. Was the change in him instantaneous or was he, if he might use the term, beginning to wean off of Hagrid's flute? Is his repertoire of skills going to expand or shrink, gain in power or turn weak? Well, he did just turn an army of Orcs into a pile of dust. Then again, he had no idea how that happened.

Groaning, the wizard tried to stumble to the shelters and caves but his legs protested and he fell against the walls and leaned against a non-protesting elf warrior who informed him, "Young Istar, your two charges are looked after by Lady Éowyn and she has taken favor to both of them."

"That's reassuring, thank you." He'll have to stay here till his meager strength returns. His head was ringing and he could feel every cut, bruise, and bloody wound on his body because they stung with his sweat.

He cracked a bloody smile. Well, look on the bright side, he was a wizard again.

oOoOo

And then, sudden and terrible, from the tower above, the sound of the great horn of Helm rang out. Everyone trembled. Back from the Deep, the echoes came, blast upon blast, as if on every cliff and hill a mighty herald stood. Harry looked up, listening in wonder for the echoes of the horn did not die. Ever the horn blasts wound on among the hills; nearer now and louder they answered one to another, blowing fierce and free.

"Helm! Helm! Helm is arisen and comes back to war. Helm for Théoden King!" And with that shout, the king came. Dawn arisen. He saw the king make a charge down from the gates, roaring over the causeway, sweeping past the enemy lines like a paper trail. Behind the King's men from the Deep came the stern cries of men issuing from the caves, driving forth the enemy. Out poured all the men that were left upon the Rock. And ever the sound of blowing horns echoed in the hills.

On they rode, the king and his companions. Captains and champions fell or fled before them. Neither orc nor man withstood them. Their backs were to the swords and spears of the Riders, and their faces to the alley. They cried and wailed, for fear and great wonder had come upon them with the rising of the day.

The tide changed, clearly he knew that much, though everything else got rather hazy. Harry couldn't describe the feelings of hope that welled in him, threatening to spill over. His dizziness took over him as he beamed at his compatriots at the sheer joy of being alive.

And then, he fainted as a ringing blast from a horn issued from the fields.

His last thought was, 'This must be what victory feels like.'

oOoOo

Between the lessons of Humility and Pride and the appreciation of another's hard work, Boromir, at last, was finally beginning to talk, even if they all revolved around one man, his younger brother, Faramir. It made one wonder how deep the sibling bond was, considering how their father, by the stories, favored the elder over the younger. "I've been following my brother in the Southern Theatre against the Haradrim. He took the position of Captain of the White Tower, where he met the Ringbearer and his gardener." Harry ran an agitated hand through his hair at the news; it meant that there was progress, but was it too slow.

"Are you proud of his many accomplishments? As a Ranger, a captain, a warrior, a son, a brother?" He delicately asked, tapping the back of the chair as habit. Then, he turned around and rested his back against the chair, facing the opposite direction. The white space in front of him darkened and morphed into a picture of a great tower with a moving eye balanced on two spires. He closed his eyes and opened them again: white space.

"Yes. He rejected Isildur's Bane, it must be what you had hoped of from me," Boromir directed his accusing gaze at the wizard, "He is stronger than I in will, I will admit that much. I love him. He is my brother." The man paused before he bit out, "I know that I erred in accepting an evil. I have tried to change my ways, I have walked and watched many, many, many things." The confession was spat out by him like it was something vile, but his words held honesty, no matter how shameful the man viewed them to be. It was a start.

"And you have learned, I need not say more." The other smiled genially, "Then you are ready for another lesson." A soft hum grew in the background, a small tune of peace and content. His grin widened in anticipation as he walked in front of the man, "The Ainur agree with me. If you haven't figured it out, your spirit can temporarily gain a body. You need to have your will overcome the main spirit in the body. With the consent of the original, you can access physical means in order to accomplish goals. What they are, I do not know." Harry shrugged, "You have a certain set of requirements to fulfill before you pass on. Unfortunately, I don't have much of inkling as to what they are. Do you?"

A determined nod.

"Then Boromir II, son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, I will be seeing you soon."

Harry woke up.

oOoOo

Mountains in the distance, an occasional plateau, but other than that, it were all plains of high and low grass in earth tones and hills that were like unmoving waves. So much space to lose oneself in an expense of grass and sky, going far into the distance in the south, this area defines the term Agoraphobia. It seemed much more foreboding when he first arrived here, years ago, but now it was inviting in that Medieval, pre-Industrialism, way. If horses died on Earth, their heaven was probably Rohan. Harry Potter draped himself over Alagos's back, staring at the scenery with a glum face, his position due to his wish to conserve energy for the rest of the ride.

Alagos was more cheerful because there wasn't so much weight on her back. At that thought, the wizard turned behind him to observe the newly reunited family. Imiram and her two children were all crowded on one Shire horse, basking in each other's love and joy; he had decided to give them a couple days worth of space. The woman was saved by Erkenbrand's men, who were apparently the group that Gandalf had brought to Hornburg just as he had fainted. That explained the horn. Apparently she had been wandering the grasslands, unharmed but traumatized and probably unstable. Harry didn't even want to inquire about Patrix's whereabouts at this moment.

What about that fire-creature that he had summoned? Was there such a spell in his old world? The air about him whispered, '_fiendfyre…_'

He shook his head as Alagos sidestepped a small cloud of gnats, "Doesn't matter," he muttered to no one in particular, "there's no way I can do that sort of magic again, I'm too vulnerable afterwards and it's too risky. I'll be putting everyone's lives around me on the table if I let go an ounce of control." It had allowed him to survive, he can't forget that, but a repeat of that stunt is too scary to even comprehend.

The problem lays in the fact that he knows that a future battle is in his near future; if that's the case, then what should his own tactics be? Even with his flute, he only mastered summoning minor bits of flame and water and all sorts of telekinesis with objects in his immediate vicinity. All the other magics with his music was done subconsciously or taught by the Ainur with no hope of replicating the technique. So… there began the trial runs.

The wizard took out an ordinary stone and set it onto his right palm. Seconds passed, minutes passed, he stared at the rock with such intensity that his eyes began to water. Dejected, he breathed out and blinked when he felt sweat coming down his brow. Wand-less magic revolved around will, intent, and power, and he was pretty sure he had all three, just need a way to master the ability. "This should be as easy as riding a broom." He muttered, "You won't know what to do if you only see a broom but once it's shown and you did it once, you can do it forever."

_&Astute metaphor, Wise One.&_ Arwen said dryly from the confines of his ever tattered and bloody cloak which was draped over his new cloak, given to him by a grateful woman whom he had never met before, _&I, however, am more partial to the Learning-How-To-Swim metaphor.&_

_&Shush, will you? I'm on my way to revolutionizing my own ways of magic usage.& _Harry hissed back. The rock was held out before him on his left hand, his right hand acted as a wand. Concentrate the pool of magic into the rock, extend out the power into your left palm and then… swish and flick, "Wingardium Leviosa." He received no result. Harry's heart immediately sank, 'How is it possible? I actually felt my magic at that time in my coils and… and I even remembered Hermione's lecture to Ron in first year, 'It's win-GAR-dium levi-O-sa.'

The weight in his hand vanished. Alarmed and excited, Harry shook out of his thoughts, his expression brightened, _&… It's floating! Arwen! It's floating!&_ At this time, he was attracting strange glances from the people of Rohan.

Hedwig hooted above him, Arwen translated, _&An inch above a surface is something I suppose.&. _The snake wiggled its body around, he had a faint suspicious that this was the serpent way of mocking someone, _∧ once again, Wise One, you are again exhausted and unable to move. Just like when you returned from the outside when we were in Helm's Deep. If this little magic is able to sap the rest of your strength, I suggest that you will need to desperately work on your control and new tactics of battle if you want to become re-involved in the war again.&_

"Yes," he replied, attracting more bewildered looks and whispers. Something occurred to him, _&What of the fellowship?&_

_&They had set off to Isengard the moment the Battle of the Hornburg was won. The owl had seen the Kings with them. They will return.& _He nodded slowly at the answer and didn't press for more.

He wanted to help, to save the righteous victims, to destroy malicious evil, no matter how cliché it sounds, is in his nature, no matter his aversion to actual violence and slaughter, he knew it was necessary. If he doesn't help, he'll become a handicap, no Gryffindor ever wanted to be in that situation. But he can't kill the enemy without feeling too disgusted. Like that time, when he recovered from his three day coma and summoned his strength to head off to a sink, more like a basin of water, and started washing his hands.

And he washed them again… to get rid of the blood from his hands because they were so stubbornly sticking underneath his fingernails, even if nobody else could see them, he could, and it bothered him so, so, so, so much… he wrung them, and rubbed them, and washed, and re-washed, and re-washed… His hands were red and raw and they hurt so much, like they were on fire, but he could still see the blood on them and in his eyes he could see the pile of Uruk-hai-ashes and the taste of troll-dust in his mouth and through his nose and down his throat.

He honestly couldn't get past the mystery of why this hasn't happened last time he killed at Moria because there, he had gotten pretty violent as the Company ran through the underground chambers. Well, no, he had gotten some nightmares of hearing that (satisfying) squelch when he had directed the weapon into the eye of the enemy, over and over again. It reminded him of that time he saw and heard Dudley repeatedly digging his heel into the back of a dying squirrel. Maybe his trauma didn't set in because he never saw any Orc fall or truly died. The temporary death of Gandalf also pushed the fact that he killed to the back of his mind and soon following, Lothlórien healed everything.

Hedwig had settled down at the saddle in front and hooted urgently. Harry looked down, he had been picking at his skin. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes guiltily darting to his sides. He whistled a tune.

So what was he most good at? His memory catapulted to his meeting with Professor Moody, Fake-Moody, that is, before the first task of the Twiwizard Tournament. What was he good at? Well, he said, "Flying," which might be useful to take out the invaders' ladders that attempted to scale the walls, but his Firebolt wasn't here and the only other flying-

"…Long distance ambushes?" He murmured thoughtfully and looked up at the sky where Hedwig was making lazy loops about the sky, "now that's an idea right there."

oOoOo

His connection with Boromir had ceased these few days. Though Harry knew that the Gondoric warrior hasn't passed onto the next life, he wasn't sure whether they would meet again or not. 'Maybe he's with his brother, Faramir, doing a task that will take him to the afterlife,' Harry rolled a blade of grass in his hands and then began tearing it to pieces. He sat on the castle steps, the inner halls of stone were too constricting to his tastes and he has often found himself outside with his pets as Carin and Atricia played games with the street kids.

"Hedwig. Hedwig!" He called out, patting the perch at his side. Few seconds later, his beloved owl landed next to his hand. Rubbing his hands together and then wringing them out to release tension, he told the bird, "This shouldn't affect you negatively at all. If you feel a weird sensation, that's the spell's doing, 'k?" The replied hoot was doubtful but the dutiful owl didn't move. Harry smiled and placed his palm on the nervous bird's head and concentrated.

The past few weeks, though that might be an exaggeration on his part, he had been having problems trying to use his magic as efficiently as possible and trying to replenish and enlarge his core. Today is it, after spending countless days pushing out his magic and reabsorbing his own and the ambient magic around him, he's sure that he could do more than that pitiful levitation spell he had attempted with mixed results. Harry imagined warmth in his body rushing through his channels and shooting out from his hand. "Engorgio!"

The stone that Hedwig was resting on began inflating. The stone exploded; Hedwig screeched and flew back into the air; Arwen started cursing from his shirt. Harry choked on a mouthful of rock bits and dust, shielding his eyes from the flying particles. '_I need to work on that.'_

It took five hours of begging, pleading, promises, and makeshift owl treats to convince the ruffled owl to come within five arm-lengths.

oOoOo

"Hullo, Harry the Grey Wizard!" Harry looked up in surprise from his work in his seventh attempt at enlarging Hedwig… Alarmed, he quickly turned back to the owl and realized that with his distraction, she had shrunk from the size of a decent chair back to her original size. Hedwig preened as he stared at her mournfully, so close, yet so far. Two familiar voices appeared over each shoulder.

"Grey wizard, you are now?" Merry asked curiously. "Gandalf said, since he's now White."

Pippin chirped, "Why have you got no staff on you or your flute?"

"Broken," he replied, easing himself to his feet and cracking a couple joints. "At the Battle of Helm's Deep." He looked down at the Hobbits, "And how are you? You were rescued?"

"They were well enough on their own and won their own battle at Isengard with the Ents." Gandalf stepped forward with twinkling eyes. He gently pushed the curious Halflings to the side to give Harry more space, "Treebeard sends his greetings to you."

Harry blinked in confusion.

"When the trees are old enough, they become alive," Merry added helpfully.

Harry made a soft 'oh' sound of comprehension and ducked his head to acknowledge, "If I could give thanks to him for all his help, I would."

"But enough about the past! We shan't pry." Pippin declared, "What is it you are doing here? I don't think you plan to keep this a secret, seeing that you are doing it all in the open."

The young wizard turned to Hedwig, who cocked her head to the side, and he turned back to his audience, the remainders of the Fellowship, with a smile at the corner of his lips, "I'm trying to make a…" He paused, unsure of the Westron vocabulary but settled for, "steed that flies. To harness the power in the air, I needed more space within me to store the magic. Then the problem was to command the magic and use my own will to control every bit off it into what I want." He turned to Gandalf who was the only one who seemed to understand his words, "But that was all fixed before you came here. I think this time I have it. All I need to do now is to lock the spell in place." He scratched the back of his head nervously at all the strange looks he received.

"So the lad decided to finally step up! Did the last battle change your resolve?" Gimli gave a hearty slap to Harry's back, making the lithe boy yelp and jump forward. Gimli muttered in a lower voice, "Don't worry about what you saw, we've all been through the horrors of war. It'll take time to adjust, but that was a wonderful first campaign." Dwarves can't sympathize well: Harry kept that to himself; he supposed it's due to the fact that Dwarves are fundamentally creatures of action.

"Don't think I'll ever adjust to what I did," Harry muttered toward the ground. He faced the dwarf, "I suppose." He did adjust. His nightmares weren't so frequent. Perhaps the only part of him that did change were his habits: washing his hands three times vigorously every time he goes to the washroom to get rid of the unsightly 'stains' that occasionally appear in the hardest to reach places, like under his fingernails. He has a strong aversion to hot charcoals and fresh ash because they reminded him of the time he stuffed his nose with Orc and Troll ash. Other than that, he felt perfectly normal, relative to normal in this world that is. He turned to Aragorn and frowned, "I never thanked you for saving my life there."

Aragorn shook his head and said simply, "You are important to me."

Harry blinked and then flushed in embarrassment. "Well," he cleared his throat, inwardly pleased at the man's words, "I owe you a debt to my life that will be repaid, I swear on my magic." The air rippled, Aragorn looked at him, interested, "Err, the last battle has forced me to try and explore what I can do in this world. Thankfully, wand less magic is a possibility here and that opens up an abundance of choices that I can take. I'm not a close range fighter anymore or was ever, so." Hedwig landed on his shoulder, "I will need some actual weaponry that I can use though." Patrix's sword, no matter how thoughtfully it was made, was out of the question. "I still have control of making objects fly in the air. Rocks perhaps?" He mused.

"Arrows." Everyone turned around and looked at Legolas, who was unperturbed by the attention, "Arrows." He repeated, "I wouldn't suggest anything else. They're lightweight, unlike swords and axes." Aragorn uncharacteristically rolled his eyes and Gimli spat at the ground, "and they'll aim fly and hit true if you know how to use them." The elf warrior took out a few from his quiver and handed them over to the astonished wizard who turned them over, examining the line, the point, and the feathers. Harry's eyebrows had long rose into his hairline at the elf's sudden kindness.

The Grey Wizard grinned, "Why yes, this would be a great possibility indeed."

Legolas smiled serenely back as Gimli growled. Harry idly wondered why.

oOoOo

'_The celebration at Rohan: loud, rowdy, drunk. Or maybe_,' Harry thought, picking the undersides of his nails, '_this is a normal occurrence. I wouldn't know.' _He looked up dubiously at the twin Hobbits singing and prancing around on the wooden tabletops with everybody in the room cheering them on as they sang songs. Each held a mug of beer or whatever alcoholic beverage they served at Rohan, mead or something similar. The mugs were as big as their heads. '_They both have a nice set of lungs,'_ Harry ducked under a fork that suddenly decided to embed itself into the wall and sighed.

The ladies were filling up the mugs as soon as they were drains, swishing their dressings and aprons and allowing men to give their bums a good hearty slap. Men were rowdy and singing and slamming the tables with their fists, cheering for whatever they were waiting for, too drunk to realize what they wanted. '_Or maybe they did know,_' Harry dryly thought as a Rohan warrior pulled down a barmaid for a sloppy kiss. The Hobbits danced a jig to the beatings of the fists. The light fixtures above them shook precariously side to side.

The wizard decided to take a stool and drag it into the corner where he could nurse his non-alcoholic drink in peace, a sort of goat milk. Happiness before battle, these people are thankful that they are alive. Harry Potter took out a gold chain with Fawkes' feather tied at the end and examined it thoughtfully. How different was the mentality of his world to this world? Both have a reining dark lord but one has technology and more magic than the other and the other has different races and kingdoms. This world was simply wilder.

This is normal. He's normal, relatively. He's fine. He can make it work in this 'normal' world.

Harry recalled earlier that Merry had pulled him aside and confided the Fellowship's adventures at Isengard. He couldn't remember much other than an object that he and Pippin are as curious as they are about, "Gandalf calls it the Palantir." A cold shiver ran down his spine.

He looked around the room and spotted Gandalf and Aragorn hiding in the shadows at the wall. Aragorn met his eyes and lifted his glass of wine in his direction. Harry twitched. After toasting the unaware party with his goat milk, he excused himself to the great hall where his sleeping arrangements were made. Through the wooden door, he could still hear the songs.

_Hey, Ho, to the bottle I go,_

_To heal my heart and drown my Woe!_

_Rain my fall and wind may blow,_

_But there still beeeee many miles to go!_

Merry's voice still bounced around in his head, "and I said to Pippin that I was sorry. I couldn't keep awake any longer. Pippin couldn't wait, I tell you, and he says that it's a mysterious glass ball, all heavy and stuff. He didn't do anything the next day, think we'll start the investigating." The wizard gritted his teeth and attempted to muffle the sounds of the seemly never ending celebration with his thin pillow, to no avail.

_Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,_

_And stream that falls from hill to plain!_

_Better than Rain or rippling brook,_

_Is a mug of beer inside this Took!_

oOoOo

Whispers in black that repeated over and over again in a hoarse voice, meaning malevolence and evil, over and over again, the One Ring spun tantalizingly in his vision. A high pitch ring, like two swords, was in his ears. Take the Ring, the Ring of Power. **Ash nazg durbatul****û****k, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul****û****k, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul. Ash nazg durbatul****û****k, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul****û****k, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul. Ash nazg durbatul****û****k, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul****û****k…** The One Ring's inscription lit up, gold on gold, as it rose up from a magma bed and into a black, gloved hand. The image changed to a tower made up of multiple towers, surrounded in shadows and overseen by a volcano. Around the tower flew nine monsters. The topmost tower held a roving eye, searching, its gaze piercing.

In a fraction of a second, he saw Pippin's terrified features.

_**Ash nazg durbatul**__**û**__**k, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatul**__**û**__**k, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.**_

Screaming, Harry shot up from his cover of blankets with a hand extended directly at an orb that was rolling away, a Hobbit giving chase after it. On instinct, he focused, "Reducto!"

The orb exploded. The stunned Hobbit, his face bleeding from the shards, turned around, it was Pippin. Harry stared at the Halfling in horror, muttering words that he himself couldn't understand, "It saw you. Peregrin Took, what did you do? What have you done?" Not realizing that Legolas was supporting his back and head, he kept rambling. His voice cracked from screaming and his mouth leaked blood from the side. His right palm was up, revealing charred skin from his sudden burst of power, "The Barad-dûr… Sauron… The Eye saw you…"


	5. Running At Last

Author's Note- I don't want you to spaz out over this story, which is what some of you are doing in the reviews. Think about this story like this like Homer's heroes- they eat a lot, they cry a lot, they failed to get seduced a lot… marginally… they are men with big stomachs and hearts. Remember: low standards.

Note- I don't own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter. And I don't know any British cussing. There will be no pairings. I liberally took lines from the book. This time, I severely butchered the movie timeline.

"_Speaking_"= English. '_Thoughts'_= English.

_&Speaking&_= Parseltongue

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

_A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover_

oOoOo

**Tales of a Wanderer: ****Running At Last**

oOoOo

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

oOoOo

'_Owl feathers are nice and warm, they make the perfect bed and pillow,'_ Harry thought with a contented purr as he snuggled deeper in. The world passed by beneath his feet in wind and great cacophony, Hedwig banked low and flapped her wings, rising again into the sky. The wizard spotted Gandalf and Pippin on the white horse, Shadowfax. Both figures were as still as stone, seated upon the statue of a running horse, Pippin was asleep, tucked in between the man's arms as they rushed on. A couple hours ago, Mithandir had exclaimed.

"You may see the first glimmer of dawn upon the golden roof of the house of Eorl. And in three days thence you shall see the purple shadow of Mount Mindolluin and the walls of the tower of Denethor white in the morning!"

The White Wizard demanded that Harry accompany them, as Sauron had seen the newly instated Istar and had grown… well, the nicer word would be "intrigued" but it was more than that. When Harry came to from his fainting spell, his meager belongings were quickly packed by servants and Hedwig had her first successful growth without shrinking and was roughly the size of a horse, not including wingspan. '_Mithrandir said that with Hedwig's size, she could be able to battle a Fell Beast, the creatures that had blocked the moon and carried the Nine Riders_.' Harry grinned as his imagination ran wild.

He never paid attention to Gondorian histories and politics; everything Gandalf briefed about concerning stewards and the Noldor soared completely over his head. Though he did manage to reach to one conclusion, after judging the irritated look the White Wizard shot at him and the Hobbit, '_Harry James Potter, you bloody idiot, you just destroyed a priceless magical artifact.' _It wasn't entirely _his_ fault, per say. The glass orb, Palantir, was chock full of dark magic so concentrated that Fawkes' feather had failed to put up any sort of barrier against the visions and his own being was screaming out at the threat it had posed on him. Harry clenched tightly to Hedwig's back, digging his thighs into her side, mentally reminding himself to get a saddle fitted later.

He could always ride the elven way… No.

From the distance and coming ever closer was a mountain range the source of the cool air that had him wearing two layers of apparels underneath his heavy cloak. He hoped that Hedwig's endurance could match Gandalf's horse; Hedwig thought it would be no problem at all. Harry squinted in the dark; there were minor civilian establishments in the distance, spots of light on the otherwise desolate plains. The moon's light hid the stars. "Minas Tirith. The White City." On some nights, Imiram had whispered to him about the story of the Return of the King and the Re-Forging of the King's Sword, now turned into legends and hopefully one day, a reality.

_&What do you see, Wise One?&_ Arwen asked.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed. Beneath his eyelids clearly there was, "A burning white tree." He wondered how Boromir is faring.

oOoOo

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end." Silent as a tree, Harry stood at Gandalf's side, looking anywhere except for the center of the chamber, where Pippin had his hand on Denethor's sword. The two Istari exchanged glances, the younger sighed and the elder turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The Hobbit shouldn't be doing this out of guilt. Harry looked to the side and saw the transparent ghost of Boromir. Boromir winked; Harry's eyes widened in shock. "So say I, Peregrin, son of Paladin of the Shire of the Halflings."

The magic in the air stirred, a thin silver thread extended from the ghost to the Hobbit and a music note resonated into the air, like a harp, low G. The sound bounced off the magnificent walls of the Hall of Kings. Slightly worried, Harry looked around at Gandalf, the guards, the Steward, the Hobbit, the ghost; nobody but him noticed the event. He pinched himself; the line was still there. A strangled noise of confusion crept out his mouth, but the ceremony continued to its end. _'Does that mean that the Stewardship goes to a dead son? How does that make sense?_'

Men came bearing a chair and a low stool, and one brought a salver with a silver flagon and cups, and white cakes. Pippin sat down, but he could not take his eyes from the old lord. Harry didn't miss the gleam of Denethor's eye when Pippin mentioned the Stones. "Now tell me your tale, my liege," said the Steward mockingly kind, "for the words of one whom my son so befriended will be welcome indeed."

The next hour that followed in the great hall was painful for Harry to witness. The Lord of Gondor had eyes that pierced the Hobbit through and through as the unrelenting questions poked, prodded, and stabbed. Harry was thankful that he, a 'meek Istar', was seen as a non-entity, an apprentice of Mithrandir who was still in his beginning years. Pippin's posture was stiff, conscious of Gandalf's and Harry's presence at his side, Gandalf's especially as the White Wizard's wrath and impatience was leaking through his normal demeanor. Trying to find a distraction, Harry examined the architecture of the chamber; the long walkway, the archways that were embedded into the ceiling. It was quite dark, compared to the whiteness of Minas Tirith. Harry supposed that the color of the city represented Light, the city had struck him speechless when he first arrived, the Citadel more so.

Gandalf could be Dumbledore and Denethor could be Fudge, mirrors and parallels abound. "And you, my Lord Mithrandir, shall come too, as and when you will. None shall hinder your coming to me at any time, save only in my brief hours of sleep. Let your wrath at an old man's folly fun off, and then return to my comfort!" The Steward shot out.

"Folly?" said Gandalf graciously, "Nay, my lord, when you are a dotard you will die. You can use even your grief as a cloak. Do you think that I do not understand your purpose in questioning for an hour one who knows the least, while I sit by?"

'_Touché_,' Harry dryly thought, mentally nodding, '_I suspect the old lord as nearly mad. At this point, anything can drive him over the edge.'_ He eyed a guard at the doorway with a suspicious glint; the guard nervously shuffled in his place.

Harry caught the last of Denethor's words, "-And to him there is no purpose higher in the world as it now stands than the good of Gondor; and the rule of Gondor, my lord, is mine and no other man's unless the king should come again." Harry looked down at his hands and imagined that black Orc-ash stains were permanent on his palms. Across the chamber, Boromir shook his head slowly, perhaps recovering from his shock at seeing his father in such a state. Harry couldn't sympathize because he never had a father. Ashamed at the thought, he shrunk inwardly upon himself and started picking his nails. Gandalf's rebuttal charged the tension in the room.

"And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower in days to come. For I also am a steward. Did you not know?" And with that, the White Wizard turned and strode from the hall with Pippin running at his side. The thread shimmered and faded.

'_Wait, what just happened?_' The chamber was silent, Denethor still sat at his throne, his head bent low but his eyes, like coals, were peering up at him. They couldn't be deciphered. Did they present interest, meddling, or a more sinister emotion? In the corner, Boromir met his eyes, turned, and strolled (glided) silently through the doors. Harry blinked and cleared his throat. He bowed respectfully low and muttered, "I take my leave, Steward," and walked as fast as he can without running, feeling the pair of black eyes on his back even as he crossed the threshold and into the halls.

oOoOo

Mithrandir, Pippin, and Harry stood on the balcony of one of the high towers of Minas Tirith and look over the plains. In the east were the jagged mountains that separated Mordor from the rest of the world where the sun was reputed to never be able to pierce due to the dark clouds that continuously rumbled. Pippin whispered, "How soon?" Gandalf heaved a sigh.

"It cannot be far off. I fear of the Steward's decisions will be our downfall."

"Our remaining choice is to wait?" Pippin asked sullenly, resting his elbows on the edge. "There must be something." A breeze picked up. A faint euphony stirred their hearts.

Suddenly, Harry turned toward the Halfling, his eyes wide and protruded and roughly grabbed Pippin's shirt, making the Hobbit yelp in surprise, "Not that way! No, not that way!" A heavy stillness like a whistle and the young wizard cowered to the ground in terror.

Pippin yelled, bewildered, "Gandalf! What-"

In a swift move, the elder wizard knelt down to Harry's level and waved a hand in his face and got no immediate answer. The elder man held Harry down as he began twitching and shuddering, "I suspect that the consequences of the destruction of the Palantir have made him more susceptible to specific visions. His voice has changed; can you hear this, Peregrin?" Suddenly, the younger Istar violently lashed out but Gandalf held firm and waved his glowing staff in front of the non-responsive face and muttered an incantation under his breath. Harry slumped.

"…Gandalf? What does Harry see?"

An aged hand brushed over a lightning bolt scar, "He sees through the eyes of Gollum. I can detect the Ring close by." With the mention of the Ring, Harry's eyes snapped open, green-black, the colors colliding into each other.

The Halfling gasped, "The Ring? Frodo and Sam!"

"Sssh! Ssh!" The young Istar hissed with fingers to his lips, shaking his head urgently, "Sssh!" Tugging at Pippin's sleeve, he pointed over the walls. The sound of thunder emerged from the mountains.

"Remember, he doesn't see you. He is speaking to someone else," Gandalf cautioned.

Harry's apparent fear and agitation became so great that he spoke again, hissing behind his hand, as if to keep the sound from unseen listeners in the air. "Not here, no. Not rest here. Fools! Eyes can see us. When they come to the bridge they will see us. Come away! Climb, climb! Come!"

Pippin, in his excitement, grabbed Harry's shoulders and gently shook them, "Harry? Frodo? Sam? What do you see?"

At that moment, the ground shook, a continuous rumbling brought everyone in the vicinity to their knees. It took some time for everyone to regain their bearings. Harry began to groan and hold his head, shaking himself out of his painful reverie. Gandalf grabbed the balcony sides, hauled himself up and announced, "The gates of Minas Morgul have been opened." With inhuman strength, he grabbed Pippin and Harry to his sides to witness the spectacle. Beyond the black mountain range and the foreboding clouds, a streak of magical power, the darkest that Harry has ever felt, emerged vertical into the air until they struck the black clouds. The magic was an Avada Kedavra green and it pierced the clouds which slowly swirled in a spiral. Maelstrom. "Harry?" The man asked.

"Yes Gandalf?" Harry uttered, still reeling from the effects the vision. Below him, the sentry and patrol men were barking orders and shuffling restlessly.

"What did you see?"

Harry rested his head on the balcony rails and frowned, "The memory is escaping me as we speak. I remember a black tower, a black gate, opening, and a black army, marching forward and…" Pippin whimpered. Harry blanched, "The Lord of the Nine Riders, the Morgul-king and his men. Oh bloody hell, they're coming."

oOoOo

Days after Pippin had lit up the fire in the watchtower, the soldiers from Osgiliath rushed through the gates of Minas Tirith on horses. A crowd had gathered and stood on their tiptoes, peering over each other's heads to see if they could hopefully recognize familiar faces. One man, the Steward's servant, pushed toward to front to take inventory of names of those who didn't make it back. Out of curiosity, Harry descended from the second level window of a bakery to witness the spectacle. The first thing he noticed were the shields of the warriors which proudly displayed the emblem containing a white tree. Gandalf rushed up to meet the party, speaking to one person in particular, "-By the time I saw that the Fell Beast were at your heels, it was too late for me to act." Harry cautiously approached his side to watch.

Pippin, who was already there, whispered into his ear, "Denethor refused to act in the face of danger. Die and let die." Harry nodded in comprehension: Denethor was a coward.

The soldier, presumed leader, turned to face Gandalf, allowing Harry a good look at the warrior. He was struck by his kin resemblance to Boromir and the look of despair on his features, "All is well, they did not manage to catch us. Mithrandir! They broke our defenses. They've taken the bridge and the West Bank. Battalions of orcs are crossing the river."

Someone in the crowd cried, "It is as Lord Denethor predicted. Long has he foreseen this doom!" Harry aimed a deadly glare at the speaker.

"Foreseen and done nothing!" Gandalf replied. Harry turned his attention to another wounded soldier in the background. The ghost of Boromir had taken over another soldier's body as there was that unmistakable silver thread connecting him to the Hobbit. The thread entered Pippin directly over and a little right of the heart. Boromir's brother was staring at the Halfling strangely, almost as if he was recalling a memory. Pippin noticed his gaze and shifted his stance, feeling uncomfortable. Gandalf seemed to also have noticed, "Faramir. This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your path?"

"No."

Pippin's embarrassment turned into hope; his face lit up, "You've seen Frodo and Sam!"

"Where? When?" Gandalf demanded.

"In Ithilien, not two days ago… Gandalf, they're taking the road to Morgul Vale."

Harry frowned, recalling his visions and stories that Imiram had told him about Mordor and its boundaries, and said, "And then to Cirith Ungol." Faramir looked down at him and then back to Gandalf; he sighed and dismounted from his horse, absentmindedly stroking the beast's nose.

Pippin, sensing the dark atmosphere, asked worriedly, "What does that mean? What's wrong?" Faramir's horse tossed its head. The ghost of Boromir left the corporeal body of a soldier and walked up the steps to the Citadel, the silver thread grew taught and then loosened. More and more ordinary civilians who came to greet the coming warriors began to congregate around the son of the Steward.

Gandalf stared into the eyes of the Gondoric man, "Faramir, tell me everything. Tell me all you know."

oOoOo

Harry stood outside the Hall of Kings, waiting for Pippin to try on his Gondoric armor. "How long can it take? He should be ready by now or come to me about adjustments," Harry muttered checking his wristwatch, then remembering that there are no such things as wristwatches in this world, and felt very foolish. He was wearing, underneath his shirt and tattered cloak, the standard chainmail and boots ensemble, but he refused to wear anything else, since the standard chest plate, might be the extra weight that'll make Hedwig unable to carry him.

He marveled at the pristine white steps and the impeccable blanket of grass in the courtyard. The sky was darkening a background to the aged, White Tree with bare white bark and bare of leaves. '_Will it burn?'_

"Hello young Istar." Harry's head shot up at the approach. Faramir stood at the doorway with a friendly smile.

"Lord Faramir," the wizard stumbled to his feet, unused to his new footwear. The man smile morphed into an amused grin. Embarrassed, Harry gave up halfway through his awkward bow and sat down, "Hello, my name is Harry. Is Peregrin Took, Pippin, is he still in there?"

"Please, just Faramir," The Gondoric man joined him at the steps, "Yes, we had a friendly chat about sizes and growth. My father took him aside for some words." Harry marveled at the casual and friendly atmosphere the other cultivated, so different from his brother who screamed intimidation.

"And your father," Harry asked hesitantly, "he had called for you?"

"The river and the Fields cannot be yielded unfought. I am to retake Osgiliath."

"No," the Istar grabbed the man's arm, "It's too dangerous."

"Risks must be taken." Faramir said lightly.

"Not of this sort. It's suicidal." Harry insisted stubbornly. "I don't know you very well and I'm not accustomed to military tactics but even I could see that your mission will fail. You're hopelessly outnumbered. Why do you do it regardless?" Faramir rested his elbows on his knees and didn't reply. The wizard sighed and looked back at the doorway: there the ghost of Boromir stood, his face was expressionless. "Even," Harry tried one last time, "Even your brother wouldn't want you to attempt this."

Faramir stiffened, "It matters not. I'll make my father proud." Harry turned to the dead Gondoric warrior; Boromir was shaking his head sadly, his fists were clenching and unclenching.

"This is about your brother and your father? You are different from Boromir, surely the Steward could see that." Silence. "Your father's mad, you can't go! This isn't the time to be proving yourself to your father, he—"

"wishes that I would've died in the place of my brother," Faramir finished, smiling sadly.

The comment left the dark haired wizard in temporary shock, "No! No, no, no. He doesn't wish that. You know it; you're both precious to him. He- he likes you and your brother both separately, because you are both unique and individual. Boromir has his own strengths while you have yours." Faramir looked over and playfully rubbed Harry's already messy hair. Harry squirmed and leaned away.

Laughing, Faramir remarked, "My brother used to do that to me." He steepled his fingers, "He was always the warrior, I was the scholar. My father detested my closeness with Mithrandir; hence, he favored Boromir, as long as I can remember."

"You-"

"Such strange events today brought me." The man muttered to the darkening sky, "I met another Halfling, I met with Mithrandir, and now you. Did you know, Harry, that I see you often in my dreams with my brother? I dream that you're guiding him through the afterlife through roads and forests of pure white, but towards what, I'm uncertain. But it was clear that he depended upon you. That's why I trust you, despite the," Faramir made some indistinct hand gestures, "the limited time since I've met you. Oh dear brother, I miss him so."

That's when Harry realized that the man changed the subject. He tried one last time, "Don't attempt this folly, you will die."

Faramir stood and shook his head. "Good bye, young Istar."

oOoOo

The grey armored soldiers were leaving on horses. Their audience dressed in black, contrasting against the white walls of Minas Tirith. Harry witnessed a young child giving a flower to a solemn rider. Petals scattered the stone path, the funeral has already started. Gandalf was in step with one of the riders with kind eyes who murmured, "This is the city of the Men of Númenor. I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom." Harry recognized the speaker.

In despair, the young Istar pushed past the crowd and caught Faramir's eye, "No!" He sighed despairingly, feeling weak in his body, "Please no!" Faramir looked away.

At the gates, Gandalf said softly, "Your father loves you, Faramir. He will remember it before the end." The gates opened, the cavalry departed.

oOoOo

Harry stared at the squadron of men in the distance, "Why are they doing this? Honor?" Why would Denethor send his remaining son to a mission that would guarantee his death? The young wizard sat on stone, swinging his legs over a ledge, contemplating. Why would Faramir agree? He just came back from Osgiliath when it was overrun by Orcs, he can't go back. Harry played with the hem of his shirt.

At the first retreat, Faramir and his men had fled early and that accounted for fewer casualties, the Fell Beasts were constantly on their heels but not over them. Harry secretly accredited it to Boromir's intervention and experience. Gandalf was hard-pressed to help them but fortunately, all of the men who withdrawn arrived alive, if not wounded. He dreaded to think about the possibilities of a successful second retreat.

Harry took out Patrix's sword and stared at his reflection: a haunted young man, perhaps not even a young man but a teenager, messy hair that covered his ears, glowing eyes, an overall fae-like appearance. '_A far cry from masculinity_,' he sighed morosely. His cheekbones were never that pronounced before were they? He probably hasn't been eating enough. The wind picked up, erasing the small finger drawings he was making in the dusty stones. He looked over in the distance as a song tentatively approached his ears.

_Home is behind,_

_The world ahead._

_And there are many paths to tread._

_Through shadow,_

_To the edge of night_

_Until the stars are all alight._

If Harry concentrated, he could see a silver thread extending from the tower level above to yonder where the squadron was. He scrambled to his feet, '_Boromir was there? What is he doing? I thought he had enough sense not to do anything stupid.' _He placed his hands over his eyes and peered out, '_Dear Merlin, did he decide to go and possess his brother's body? That might actually help…' _The song continued, the silver thread thrummed as each word was pronounced. He could hear the hooves of the horses trampling the ground, the battle cry of the fellow men on the gloom. He could hear their own heartbeats beating and the screeching of the beasts and the tightening of arrows on bows, waiting to fly.

_Mist and shadow,_

_Cloud and shade._

_All shall fade…_

_All shall…_

The silver thread violently shook, as if assaulted by an external force and then silenced. Panicking at the omen, Harry leaped to the ground and rushed to the inner walls, "Gandalf!"

_Fade._

"Gandalf!"

The bells tolled over and over again. Harry found the White Wizard sitting by a wall, mourning. The elder wizard then stood up from his spot and stared over Pelennor Fields, "Mithrandir! The men!" Harry tugged on the wizard's robes, "We have to save them! I saw that they already lost."

"Unfortunate." Mithrandir muttered, "Oh Denethor, Steward of Gondor, your actions!" He turned to Harry, "All is not yet lost: one is retreating and gripping his life by the slightest hooks." He handed the younger wizard his staff, not handed so much as thrust upon him, "Go! Guide them home and remember that light is enough to defeat the dark!"

Running on adrenalin, Harry nodded quickly and ran toward the walls, "Hedwig!" A large shadow appeared over him as he jumped over the ledge with the white staff clenched tightly in his hands and landed on the owl who took no time to soar over the open plains. "Light is enough. Light is enough." He muttered, shielding his eyes from the wind. Beyond at the horizon, approaching closer at every second, was the lone returning Gondoric warrior, slumped and yet floating above the fleeing horse's saddle. Boromir sat in his brother's place, the silver thread thrummed and faded, thrummed again into Harry's vision and faded again. Three Fell Beasts and their riders were flying above the pair, shrieking and diving down to attack with sharp teeth and claws, but Faramir's horse miraculously, and perhaps this too was Boromir's intervention, dodged every single blow.

"Light is enough." Harry reassured himself as he sped toward the pair and thrust the staff forward, channeling his magic and shouted, "Lumos!"

Three beams of light shot out across the Pelennor Fields, spinning. In the wizard's mind, he could hear the soft singing voice of a woman. He gritted his teeth and concentrated, sweat dripped from his brow: the three beams conjoined and directed to the dark serpents. As dark creatures, the Fell Beasts screeched in pain and swerved away from the light, eventually giving up on their pursuit. Wordlessly, he urged Hedwig down till he could meet parallel to Boromir's eye level; he took a sharp breath when he saw the multiple arrows protruding from Faramir's torso before asking, "How is he?"

"Alive, still." Boromir replied, his voice issuing from Faramir's mouth, "I took the body of a dead comrade to shield him from the worst but the comrade's horse was already gone. My brother's foot is stuck in the stirrup and I can't maintain my control in his body much longer." The silver thread connecting his chest to the Citadel thrummed four times. The dark haired wizard urged Hedwig even closer to the horse and eyed the distance.

He jumped onto the saddle and took the reins behind Faramir, "I've got it." He managed out after struggling a while for balance.

"The little Istar thinks that he can ride a battle stallion?" Harry glared at the ghost who had the characteristic grin on his face that was apparent when he was alive. "I'll be seeing you soon, wizard. Do not fail." The silver thread disappeared; Faramir slumped as the spirit of Boromir left the unconscious and bleeding body.

Harry urged the horse faster; Hedwig followed above and gave a warning hoot.

He looked behind and saw legions of Orcs, Mordor hounds, Trolls, and siege towers, endless and endless and stretching on forever, with the pounding beat of their drums. "_Shit."_ Harry urged the horse even faster.

oOoOo

The horse flew like the wind, must have some elven-bred blood in him. The double doors were alive, a personified duo of ancient guardians. Craning his neck to see the top, Harry knocked on the great doors, "Let us in," he shouted, casting a weary glance back at the oncoming army, moving steady to drums. The ground trembled in fear. He ghosted a hand over the arrow shafts that protruded from Faramir's armor, fearing to move or touch them. "You must stay alive, do you hear me?" He hissed to the unresponsive man. "Do not die!"

Voices from the door boomed out, "Open the gates! Quick!" And the gates opened.

oOoOo

Harry had left Faramir lying pale as death on a litter hauled by soldiers as they headed toward the top of the Citadel. He had staggered to a wooden barrel and plopped himself on it, Hedwig, in her natural size, landed lightly on his shoulder and gave his ear a nip. After checking his owl for injuries and finding none, in that exact uncomfortable position, he had taken a nap and dreamed of nothingness till the frantic cry, "Shields up!" woke him up.

Harry startled and looked up blearily, '_did something block out the sun?_' Immediately following the thought, his instincts that kept him alive as long as he was forced his body to duck from… an incoming human head, Gondorian helmet still attached. The head made a sound that was between a 'Thud' and a 'Slap' when it collided with a door. '_Ahh, Faramir's comrades,' _resisting the urge to scream or puke, Harry scrambled under a nearby shield that another soldier held, '_With their eyes still open I see.'_ More heads attacked them and rattled the soldier's shields and minds. '_First things first was psychological warfare_,' Harry thought, trying his hardest not to look down at the heads and their opened and closed eyes and mouths, all twisted in a macabre of expressions, '_The Orcs are doing a fine good job at chipping away at the morale and courage. Voldemort couldn't have done better._'

Then boulders began to substitute human heads. One crashed into a tower on Harry's left, crumbling the entire wall and sending stone, debris, and people to the ground in a sickening crunch. The Istar coughed as the dust reached him and waved his hand around.

'_Wait a moment,' _he looked around, '_Where are our leaders? The battle just started!'_

As if answering his question, from the Citadel that housed the Halls of Kings, from the open courtyard, addressing his subjects, Lord Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, manically bellowed to the Fields and to the skies, "The End has come!" Soldiers looked up at the booming voice in alarm, all anticipating to run, "Abandon your posts!" Harry dodged a boulder that was heading in his direction, tripping over human heads as he scrambled gracelessly to his feet. The wizard mutely shook his head, no; this is the opposite of what Gondor should be right now! The boulder crushed a large hole in the fragile infrastructure and the whole front came tumbling down. Hedwig flew to his side, hooting in alarm. "Flee! Flee for your lives!"

Then there was a loud "Thud!" and a "Smack!" and some scuffling sounds from the topmost tower. Harry blinked. Then the unmistakable voice of Mithrandir commanded, "Prepare for battle!"

oOoOo

Rammas Echor has fallen. He's flying on Hedwig again, meeting the creature of darkness that shrieks and strikes terror in the hearts of even the bravest men. Breathe in and out, in and out, '_I can do this.' _He circles lower over one of the Riders of the Nine and its serpent whom he just had Hedwig body slam to prevent the destruction of a trebuchet.

Sword drawn, the enemy flies up to meet him in combat, they circle around each other, and the heavy breathing of the servant to Sauron could be heard. Harry pulls out two of Legolas's arrows and levitates them, one in each hand. "Fly without fear Hedwig!" Harry murmurs to the owl's ears, "There is nothing but here and now." Arwen hisses a challenge at the creature from his collar.

The Fell Beast tossed its head and whispers eagerly in his direction, &_famed Speaker of Serpents. So I shall bring you down at last.&_

Beneath then, Mithrandir's shouting, "Don't aim for the towers. Aim for the Trolls. Kill the Trolls!"

Then he remembers Mithrandir's previous words, "The Nine Riders will not be stopped until the destruction of the Ring. We can only hope to stall." And stall he must, he, Harry Potter, will take great pleasure in achieving that goal.

Wordlessly, each arrowhead bursts into green flame. The Rider hesitates. Harry smirks wickedly and Hedwig rushes forward.

He releases the arrows.

oOoOo

His enlarging charm over his beloved owl failed to hold at the approach of the Nazgûl King and with his magic reserves depleted, he had to make a tactical retreat to the lower levels of the city. Night fell upon the city and the attacks were unrelenting; his pessimistic side was still surprised that Minas Tirith was still standing. It has been hours past. Hours of loading the catapults and releasing them past the hostile lines, hours of forcing one's body to the main gate at the lowest level of the city, determined not to let anyone pass, hours of enduring the cries of the Fell Beast as he waits for his magic to regenerate fully in the morning.

The Orcs have a sort of launcher that they were hammering with at a never ending rhythm. The double doors have been barricaded in all imaginable ways, but even that won't last for long. The young Istar had his entire body, between more robust bodies of the soldiers, pressed against the door, his feet digging into the ground as the hammer on the other side pounded again. His cheek could feel the heat coming from the wood and he was unsure why it was so; he could hear the sounds of breaking, of wood splintering, of creaking and he wondered if he will die, right here, right now. '_This is war,' _he thought rationally, '_But you can't think about death too long. You think about valor and the people as a whole.'_

As people around him said goodbye to one another, long time friends, brothers, relatives, he softly sang to himself. &_We will not die now, Wise One&,_ Arwen weakly hissed. Harry soothingly petted her head. Poor Arwen, longtime exposure to the Fell Beasts made her physically ill.

"Weapons they hammer in the forge, shall fight longer and enemies blood shall pour." In a building that overlooked his position, he could see, huddled and watching anxiously, women, children, young and old. He smiled brightly at them and waved farewell, "What is this future we await, handed to us by she named Fate."

One moment: he was pressing against the gate. Another moment: the center of the gate bore a hole and a head of a creature with fire in its maw peered out from the other side. Another moment: Crash… Harry was staring into the beaded eyes of a Troll.

"Retreat! The city is breached. Pull back to the second level! Get the women and children out. Get them out! Retreat!"

With a flick of his wrist, Harry shot an arrow into the Troll's eye. He looked at his handiwork, screaming in fury and pain, in awe: Legolas's arrows were finely made; he must compliment the elves' work, if he makes it out alive. But he mustn't be wasteful; he only has a limited number of arrows. An Orc slashed at him with a battle-axe, he moved back, receiving a nasty gash on his arm. The enemies swarmed in, attacking the Gondorians, some even began eating them. Holding his arm out, Harry ran toward the steps, yelling at Hedwig to follow him as the mass below were mercilessly slaughtered. He aimed his remaining arrows into the fray. '_First level. Protection failed. Heavy casualties.'_

"Fight! Fight for your lives!"

oOoOo

The young wizard's rush to the steps to the higher levels were halted by the possessed body of Peregrin Took. "Boromir! I've heard that your father! Burn!" Harry makes some mad gestures, "your brother!" The Hobbit's body was surprisingly strong, "What are you doing? We have to stop him!"

"I will." Boromir said, "We will, not you."

"What are you talking abou-"

"This will be taken care of, but not with you. I must do this." Boromir folded his arms and stood tall, imposing, even in the Halfling's body. Harry huffed and blew his fringe out of his eyes.

A horn blew, making both men stand alert. The source came beyond the lines and reserves of the Orcs from the right side, the North. The sound was brought forth by the crack of dawn, by the fact that Harry could feel his magic core replenished, that every Gondorian men could finally, finally, begin to hope. "The Rohirrim!" Boromir breathed out, looking over yonder at the Fields, fingering the hilt of his sword. Shaking himself out of his reverie, the man turned to the wizard, and said determinedly, "I must attend to my brother." The warrior held out a hand, palms up, "You are to receive our allies." From his hand, there materialized-

"The Horn of Gondor." Stupefied, Harry rubbed his eyes, "But how? It was broken and placed on your funeral boat."

"It matters not. Answer their call." The young Istar looked back at the man and nodded. He waved a hand over his owl to begin the enlarging spell and then mounted on her back. Boromir hesitated his words, "Tell my brother, when this war is over, that I was always proud of him."

Harry held the horn to his lips and blew.

oOoOo

Peregrin Took held tightly to Gandalf as they rushed down the halls on the back of Shadowfax to the funeral pyre. Lord Denethor released the torch. Behind white robes, Pippin could smell burning wood and flesh. The Halfling leaped from the galloping horse and onto the bonfire. He frantically patted the flames out and pushed. Faramir's body was too heavy to move!

Gritting his teeth, the Hobbit summoned more of his strength; digging into the last of his strength and dug his feet between the burning timber and the man, closed his eyes and heaved. "Aaarrrgghh!" He cried as the man tumbled to the floor.

"No!" Pippin looked behind and trembled at the sight. Denethor stood above, burning yellow and orange so bright that one could almost mistaken him for the Ainur. The old lord lunged for the Hobbit's throat; the Hobbit scrambled back and fell off the pyre. The man was prepared to jump down to strangle the Halfling, about to jump from the pyre, when a mysterious force pushed him back. "You will not take my son from me!" The lord cried and wept, "He calls for me."

Pippin, bewildered, grabbed his chest to calm his frantic heartbeats, as if touching his own heart. He could be imagining it, but the Halfling could see before him, that there was a transparent figure, with its back to him, standing between him and the mad lord. A thin silver thread was pulled taught between his chest and the figure's back. The Hobbit stared at the ghost's proud stance and whispered unsurely, "Boromir?" Boromir turned around, paused, and then smiled.

The silver thread broke.

oOoOo

Harry had waited till Boromir had left him and frowned. The farther away he moved from the Citadel, the more repulsive his conscious felt. His duty still remained behind him, unfinished. He never was the type to disregard his instincts, no matter how wrong he was. He can't fight here yet, not yet. For his entire life, he has always trusted his guts, why not now? Harry paused, about to fly, and made a split second decision, "'Not with you,' _my arse_." He muttered angrily, mimicking Boromir's voice, and turned the owl around, "as if a spirit can command me. We're going back, Hedwig."

A voice in his head, melodic and amused, trilled, "Wise choice, Grey One, your job is about to begin." Haunting symphonious encased him and shimmered over his skin and over Hedwig. Harry raised his hand: his hand wasn't there, neither was his wrist and his arms were just about to fade away. He raised an eyebrow as his torso disappeared.

"What the…" The pair disappeared.

oOoOo

"He calls," said Gandalf to the Steward, coming closer on Shadowfax and stepping over the unconscious body of Faramir, "but you cannot come to him yet. For he must seek healing on the threshold of death, and maybe find it not. Whereas your part is to go out to the battle of your City, where maybe death awaits you. This you know in your heart."

"He will not wake again," Denethor started as one waking from a trance, the fires behind him licked tantalizingly close at his feet but did not touch him. "Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side by side?" Pippin coughed as the mausoleum filled with smoke despite the hole in the ceiling.

"Authority is not given to you, Steward of Gondor, to order the hour of your death," answered Gandalf. "And only the heathen kings, under the domination of the Dark Power, did thus, slaying themselves in pride and despair, murdering their kin to ease their own death. You have duty to your people." Denethor looked at his son and for a while, all were silent and still.

Then suddenly, making an about turn, Denethor laughed. He stood up tall and proud again, the high flames casting black shadows on his face, and it seemed cut out of hard stone, sharp and terrible. His eyes glittered. "Pride and despair!" He exclaimed, throwing his arms to the side, as if embracing a coming from the ceilings, "Didst thou think that the eyes of the White Tower were blind? Nay, I have seen more than thou knowest, Grey Fool. For their hope is but ignorance. Go then and labor in healing! Go forth and fight to the death! Mordor comes with its fleet from the lands and from the seas. Even if you triumph for a day, it will all be for naught!" He glared at the White Wizard, "I know of your true dealings Mithrandir. Do I not know that this Halfling was commanded by thee to keep silence? That he was brought hither to be a spy within my very chamber? And yet in our speech together I have learned the names and purpose of all thy companions.

"So!" The lord continued to rage, "With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a little while as a shield against the Dark Kingdom, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me. Never! I will not be by tool, Gandalf! I am Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved true, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity."

"What then would you have," Gandalf attempted to pacify, "if your will could have its way?"

"I would have things as they were in all the days of my life," answered the old lord, "and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace, and leave my chair to a son after me, who would be his own master and no wizard's pupil. But if doom denies this to me, then I will have naught: neither life diminished, nor love halved, nor honor abated."

"To me it would not seem that a Steward who faithfully surrenders his charge is diminished in love or in honor," remarked the White Wizard, "And at the least you shall not rob your son of his choice while his death is still in doubt."

It was the wrong thing to say. At those words, Denethor's eyes flamed again, and drawing a knife, he flung himself off the pyre and to his son. Pippin cried, "No!" but couldn't move fast enough.

"Shadowfax!" Gandalf thundered. The noble horse cantered forward and used its body as a shield against the crazed lord. Shadowfax reared in front of Denethor and with its front legs, kicked the Steward back onto the pyre.

Denethor looked up, the fire in his eyes already dissipated; face gleaming from sweat and oil. He stared at his son; Faramir stare at him through half-opened, glazed, eyes. "You've robbed me of my son at last, but you will not defy my will: to rule my own end." The flames around him roared and latched onto his robes greedily, Denethor attempted to stand again. He looked up and froze.

For a moment, the transparent form of Boromir stood at the side of his younger brother. Faramir turned his head slightly and looked up at the ghost, smiled, and closed his eyes. Boromir stared at his father accusingly; he needed not to speak to convey his shame. Denethor recoiled, "No." He murmured, "It's not possible. You cannot see me… You cannot witness!"

In a fit of rage, he jumped off the pyre, everyone in the chamber tensed, but Denethor rushed by and out the doors, a human torch. His last cries of pain and sorrow echoed in the mausoleum.

oOoOo

Harry reappeared in a dark chamber holding a funeral that was in session and accessed the situation. He was also holding something, a staff that looked remarkably like Mithrandir's but in grey with an emerald stone in the holder. The staff was a pleasant burn in his hands, a feeling that was similar to Fawkes' feather against his chest. "Well… not how I expected it to be."

Hedwig flapped her wings twice and hooted. Arwen whispered and surveyed her surroundings, &_The staff is yours... How interesting, Time has stopped__! How?_&

Everyone in the chamber wasn't moving, even the flames on the pyre weren't flickering, as if everything was stuck in time. The haunting music didn't cease but enveloped the entire room, flowing and echoing upon itself. Wait; there was one person who wasn't stuck in Time. Harry coughed at the smoke and inquired, "Boromir? Your silver thread is broken."

"So it is, Grey One," the man nodded and wordlessly acknowledged his mistake at the notion of duty, "Have you seen my father?"

Harry closed his eyes and searched for the knowledge, "He leaped off the edge. He will be purged. It will be a long journey, considering…" Boromir nodded wearily and rubbed his forehead.

"And I?"

And for a moment, knowledge, through light and whispers, flooded him, memories that he had never seen before. It was as if he was born into this role, "Your thread is broken." Harry repeated.

"Ah. I see."

"You might want this back." Harry reached into his shabby robes and took out the Horn of Gondor. But the Gondoric warrior shook his head.

"Keep it. It is my gift to you." The Istar nodded sadly and raised his staff in the ghost's direction. "Farewell, young one."

His being filled with peace, Boromir slowly dissolved. Time returned in its normal state. Harry whispered. "Farewell."

oOoOo

Gandalf, in grief and horror, turned his face away and closed the door. For a while, he stood in thought, silent upon the threshold. "So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion," said Gandalf, aghast, "And so passes also the days of Gondor that you have known; for good or evil they are ended. Come Pippin, we will bear Faramir, Steward of Gondor, to a place where he can sleep in peace, or die if that be his doom." Mithrandir paused in his step and hailed without turning, "Hello Harry."

Pippin pivoted on his heels to see a grey-cloaked young man bearing a staff that held a glowing emerald. On his shoulder perched a white owl and around his neck was a green snake.

Harry recalled the realm to where he was transported to, where the Ainur had transported him to claim him as one of their own. They fed him light and grace, blessed him with knowledge and the feelings of true pain. Trials upon trials that never seemed to end, indescribable and innumerable, in a place where time was fluidity and did not obey the rules; this area with joyful songs and music boasted itself as the sprout from which Middle Earth emerged. He was given powers, he was given understanding; and thereafter, he was truly one of the Istari. Inside though, he was still the same Harry James Potter.

Harry smiled serenely, "Hallo, Mithrandir, you look well."

"As are you, you've paid your respects?" The White Wizard turned, scrutinized his face, and whispered, "I dearly wished that I may have seen him again, but it was not to be. May he find peace." He straightened up, "But the City will not wait. We still have many things to accomplish."

Harry cheerfully nudged Pippin's shoulder in greeting. After being startled by the gesture, the Hobbit grinned and hugged the wizard tightly.

oOoOo

The Rohirrim battled courageously in the Fields. More forces, allied with Mordor arrived: men on giant battle-elephants. Gandalf had said that they were, "Haradrims riding on the Mûmakils, also known as Oliphaunts." It didn't matter.

Hours passed. The three of them, Gandalf, Pippin, and Harry Potter, were cornered. Harry sat at the entrance to the next level, watching as soldiers pushed their bodies against the gate, where on the other side; Trolls were slamming their bodies to break the barrier. '_Slowly and slowly the Darkness rises to engulf and drown.' _It's a few hours into the morning; the gate was destined to break. The civilians were hiding in the upper half of the city, the inner rooms of the buildings were deserted, broken jars and treasures, scattered about in the rush. His heart broke at the realization. This is the last stand, the thought of loosing had never before occurred to him. If one gave it their all, shouldn't there be results?

Deliberately, he broached a plan to Mithrandir, "If the door breaks, you can order all the soldiers to quickly retreat and I can attack the invaders without worry about accidentally harming anyone else." Once Harry had transformed into a true Grey Istar, his powers were beyond his control. He couldn't fine-tune his work, which included his power over fire and levitation. Hedwig was in her natural size and he feared trying anything on her. In Pelennor Fields, the Oliphaunts roared and trumpeted and crushed. Pippin, who sat at his right, flinched when the sounds of violence reached his ears.

"It wouldn't be possible." Gandalf replied, tapping his staff to the ground twice, "No time and no space."

The three of them once again descended into gloomy silence. "I," Pippin started, facing his companions, "didn't think it would end this way."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, "End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey curtain of rain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it." He looked beyond the city and the world, as if seeing all that he described.

"What Gandalf? See what?" Pippin asked.

"White shores and wondrous melodies." The aged wizard's eyes twinkled in memory, "And beyond that, far green country under a swift sunrise."

"That's not so bad. Amazing, in fact. It is far different from my old world." Harry breathed.

"Can you tell us about your origins, Harry?" Pippin turned and inquired. The axe from the Troll at the gates chipped away at the wood. Harry jumped as another axe made contact with the gate. It won't be long before the Orcs breach the second level.

The young wizard smiled wistfully, "At first it was harsh, but the friends you make are loyal. The children keep their innocence and there are no wars. There are Opposing Forces there too but not yet… the benefits outweigh any darkness. I hold precious memories of those days."

"I'm sorry to say that I have no power to send you back." Gandalf inclined his head.

"It was home. It _was_." Harry reassured the elder and ruffled Pippin's hair, "But this is my new home. I've come to accept that fact. Here, I tried my best, right Mithrandir?" The Hobbit smiled back.

The soldiers at the doors were shouting, the Orcs on the other side were getting restless. It won't be long before the two sides meet. Pippin's hands ghosted over the handle of his sword.

Closing his eyes Gandalf hummed a tune softly, moving notes in an intricate pattern, not a melody but a chant. Mesmerized, the young Istar leaned forward to listen. Pippin's eyes widened. A breeze picked up, whispering, singing along with the White Wizard. It was beautiful to hear. It reminded him of a sanctuary where the sun warmed even the coldest hearts. A beautiful landscape before you, two forges and a river and waiting ahead was a boat… Mithrandir continued to hum. It recalled joyful emotions and knowledge, of knowing, of achieving a goal…

Hedwig hooted. Harry turned around and gasped, "How did you…?"

The elder Istar opened his eyes and assessed his handiwork proudly. Hedwig hopped down to the ledge, battle-sized and ready, and flapped her wings impatiently. "I thank the Ainur for granting me this piece of knowledge at this moment. Harry, is it not time," Gandalf looked out from the side of his eyes at the enlarged owl, "for you to fly?"

oOoOo

The gate fell and the access to the second level of the city was bare before them. The Orcs and Trolls charged forward, attacking any who stood in their way. Harry flew to the other side of the wall, casting a shadow on Mordor's army. The warriors of Sauron looked up. Harry grinned and raised his staff. The emerald glowed and resonated; a green fire surrounded the emerald, little by little picking up speed and size till the army could feel its heat. Harry's eyes glowed green and his hair flew in all directions as his smile widened. He lowered the staff and pointed to the enemies who were looking at each other nervously, some had their bows pointed in his direction but that didn't worry him. The incantation was softly whispered, unlike the ensuing chaos that came afterwards, "_Fiendfyre._"

oOoOo

The Riders of Rohan looked about as big as cockroaches from his vantage point, shooting out spears and arrows and waving swords. The Orcs looked even smaller. Wondering how far his reputation had spread, Harry concluded that the Haradrims apparently had some inkling of his abilities as they had wisely dodged his first shot at them which was a green fireball. Screeching fiercely, Hedwig banked to the left to avoid the Oliphant's spiked tusks and Harry had to dodge the many arrows that were aimed at him. Some hit, but he ripped them out and hoped that they weren't poisonous.

The wizard gritted his teeth in annoyance; this wasn't working well, a new plan was needed, "Closer Hedwig. I want you to go straight at the rider on my word. Steady…"

Another cloud of arrows came at him; he flew to the right and up, a few meters away from the lead rider. He flung another fireball at the Haradrim, who effortlessly dodged the attack and sneered remarkably like Snape. "Steady…" Another cloud of arrows; some of them met their mark but it wasn't enough to stop him. "Now!"

The owl screeched again and dove straight at the group of archers without abandon. Harry jumped off Hedwig and flung his staff at the unsuspecting rider's head, knocking him off the Oliphaunt. Slipping on the skin, he grabbed the loose reigns and pulled himself up. He stood on the spine and frantically waved his arms till he was able to balance on the curious edge. He aimed another blast of emerald fire at the archer group that was unable to fend against Hedwig's close attacks. The fire burned the Haradrims and the ropes supporting the tent. The entire group crumbled to the ground.

Harry walked back to the rampaging Mûmakil's forehead; after pausing to breathe deeply, he drew Patrix's sword and stabbed the Oliphaunt deep between the eyes and twisted. A cry, the Oliphaunt violently tried to shake him off. With an unrelenting grip, he stabbed repeatedly at the head, paying no heed to the pained screams from the beast, until it staggered and fell to its knees. Harry's feet lost their traction and he slid down the Oliphaunt's trunk. The beast collapsed, dead. Harry fell forward onto the grass, groaning as his wounds started to make themselves known as his adrenalin rush left him. Grass fell from his hair; he spat out a mouthful of dirt and looked up.

His mouth dropped in shock.

Legolas and Gimli, standing in front of another fallen Mûmakil, looked down at him in bemusement. "Seems like the lad is fine after all," Gimli chuckled heartily.

Harry sputtered, "You… When…" An army of green ghosts were flying over the fields, knocking down any Orc or troll that came in their way. The ghosts, like ants, covered an Oliphaunt, bringing the shrieking beast to the ground. Neither the elf nor the dwarf seemed astonished at this fact.

Legolas held out a hand, Harry took it and was hauled to his feet. The elf warrior patted Harry on the back, laughing as he replied to Gimli's remark, "It seems so."

oOoOo

The Battle of Pelennor Fields has ended; the assault by Mordor has failed. Minas Tirith was still standing, if not on shaken foundations. They had won. They had won!

Exhaustion repeatedly pulling him down, Harry limped across the aftermath of war, clutching onto the feathers of Hedwig, who, after her last brave attack, had her wing pierced by Haradrim arrows. But it wasn't anything a few days of healing and rest couldn't fix. The owl didn't look to be shrinking anytime soon. Harry wondered if there were any dog-sized mice in this world. At least Arwen and Hedwig wouldn't be fighting over the last mice during mealtimes. He stepped over another corpse and sidestepped a dead Orc, casually kicking its head to the side.

"It's over…" He said with relief, wiping the sweat-dirt-blood mixture from his face.

He limped ahead to Gandalf, who had motioned him over. By Gandalf stood Aragorn, Pippin, Gimli, and Legolas and before them was an entire army of pale green ghosts. Their eyes were glowing sockets. Their cursed flesh was half decayed but they stood high and proud as they were, long ago. The silence between life and death was one of meditation, a reflection of all that has happened. Aragorn didn't seem frightened at all, though that couldn't be said for the same to everyone else. Harry gulped as the presence of amassing spirits sent a feeling like a cold bucket of water down his back.

The leader of the army stepped forward, "Release us."

"Who is he?" Harry hissed.

"King of the Dead." Pippin whispered back. Gandalf elbowed him.

Meanwhile, Gimli followed up the dead leader's words by saying, "Bad idea. Very handy in a tight spot, these lads, despite the fact that they're dead." Harry resisted the urge to palm his face. Wondrous army indeed, as the dead cannot be re-dead, but _you don't say things_ _like_ _that._

"Gimli." He muttered hopelessly. The dwarf shot him a look.

The King of the Dead looked furious, "You gave us your word!"

Calmly and slowly, Aragorn addressed the ghost army, "I hold your oath fulfilled."

Sensing that his skills were needed, Harry stepped forward and tapped his staff twice on the ground and said dutifully, "So he says and it is done. You are free, go and be at peace." The emerald in his staff glowed, brighter and brighter till it was blinding white. The King of the Dead smiled and closed his eyes.

The army of the Dead was swept away by the wind and light, never to be seen again.


	6. Return of the King and the West

Author's Note- I think Minas Tirith is Mykonos in mountain-mode. In the movie, Legolas was kick-ass. In the book, Legolas was kick-ass and slightly metro, like all other elves, truly.

Oh blissful end of narratives and storytelling, how close you are! Am I the first one to get this far in an HP LOTR crossover? Did I make it this far? Granted there are better crossover fics out there (*cough* _Concerning Wizards_ *cough*) who aren't as lazy as I, I, who squeezed the entire trilogy in six chapters. It's like squeezing the juice of a lemon into a glass and downing it like vodka after adding a pinch of salt. But I made it _this _far! Oh brave new world… Wait, that's not the proper situational quote. Here is a Bonus!

_Begin Missing Scene: Rivendell. _

Harry parted the bushes and searched the trees as he frantically muttered to himself. At an utter lost, he stood in the middle of the gardens and grabbed his hair, as if that will speed up his thought processes. Aragorn spotted him and inquired, "What is wrong?"

"I lost her! She's gone!" Harry exclaimed, opening the lid of a decorative jar and then closing it.

"Who?"

"Arwen! She was in my shirt last night but now I can't find her!"

"…I beg pardon?"

_End Missing Scene: Rivendell_. I have to admit that this was the sole reason why I named a snake Arwen.

Note- I may present to you the semi-epilogue. Pardon my bad elvish. I don't own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter. And I don't know any British cussing. There will be no pairings. I liberally took lines from the book. The timeline was butchered; there are no eagles.

"_Speaking_"= English. '_Thoughts'_= English.

_&Speaking&_= Parseltongue

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

_A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover_

oOoOo

**Tales of a Wanderer: Return of the King and the West**

oOoOo

_Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,_  
_Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,_  
_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,_  
_One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._  
_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,_  
_One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them_  
_In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie._

oOoOo

Harry's life debt to Aragorn was lifted the moment he released the Army of the Dead from their stranglehold to Middle Earth. He had informed the future king of this fact and, surprisingly, got a huge hug from the Ranger. Perhaps the man missed him? He had also gotten embraced by both the elf and the dwarf at the same time; it was an interesting experience considering the major height differences between the three of them. That's good, because he missed them too. Pippin had bounded off in hopes of finding Merry, who was rumored among the Riders of Rohan to be one of the slayers of the Witch King. Gandalf had aided in the Hobbit's search.

Harry walked into the House of Healing in one of the higher levels. Healers and Herb-specialists hurried to and fro, from patient to patient. The sun's light, already muted by the dirty windows, highlighted the amount of dust in the room. Overall, this was a quiet place, where people can sleep. As hours go by, more and more of the injured were being sent in and it was always busy. Hedwig was in the stables, already treated. He reckoned that it'll be a couple of days before she's in tip-top shape, but at least it was a full recovery. He, himself, had both his arms and legs bandaged from the arrow wounds and the single laceration on his arm by the Orc's sword, couldn't even see his own fingernails. It didn't sting till the nurses (an army of Pomfreys) applied the balms.

Feet stopped, he stood in the middle of organized chaos, looking around at the many bed, white and clean, a single sheet and pillow. In fact, in this room there were only a couple of patients, one of them whom he was looking for. "_Tell my brother, when this is over, that-", _Yes, those were Boromir's words, weren't they? The man has come a long way since he's died, losing his sinful pride, his gift reflect that transformation. Around Harry's neck, hanging from a leather string, was the prized Horn of Gondor. The Istar took it out and turned it over in his hands, smooth to the touch; there wasn't any hint of a crack, strange. Over there, at the corner, lying down on the bed and awake. Harry quickened his pace.

Faramir's face was set in stone, a marble statue made by Michelangelo. "Steward? Faramir?" The man turned his head, his eyes lit up in recognition. Harry pulled up a chair and sat down, "How are you feeling?" The patient opened his mouth and started coughing.

"He can't speak now, dear," a passing nurse tsked, "It's hard for his chest."

Guilt. "Oh. Sorry." Guilty silence. He cleared his throat into his hand, "So I would like to give you this. It belonged to Boromir, you should recognize it." In one swift move, he held the Horn of Gondor in his hands and presented it to the man like a sword. Faramir looked up with a questioning expression that was easily translated. Harry shook his head, "You are the new Steward and I think you should have it."

A weak hand with burns decorating the skin reached up and pushed the Horn back. Faramir grimaced and shook his head, his eyes conveying his meaning, 'It's yours. If my brother wanted you to have it, then you should keep it and cherish it.' The Gondorian man's eyes were warm and kind, they held hidden depths of compassion and knowing. This man's a rare breed in this world ravaged by war. (A bustle of nurses rushed in with another patient, this time a Rohirrim, a woman, Eowyn, who was unconscious and sporting a blackened arm. They lowered her into a nearby ward.)

The young Istar bit his lower lip nervously, gazing down at the ancient relic before whispering, "He always loved you, you know. I don't think he truly ever left your side. That you can't doubt. He wanted to tell you that he was proud of you." He spoke as Faramir's eyes grew wider in recognition of a memory, "Do you understand? You are his little brother and he will keep protecting you. There's a life here suited for you and no one wants you to throw it away."

oOoOo

"I'm dreadfully hungry," Merry, sitting upright in his bed with Pippin at his side, informed Harry the moment he entered, "I daresay I will have the stomach for five breakfasts."

"That's quite a feat," Harry laughingly replied as he crossed the room, "your feast, oh noble fighter, will be with you shortly." He sat down on the other end of the Hobbit as the pair shifted to the side of the bed to give him room. The off-white curtains gently swayed at the cool breeze from the mountains. There was a helmet from Rohan that looked to be fitted for either a young teen or a woman that was placed proudly on the bedside.

"You've just missed Strider not a few moments past. He left with Gandalf after expressing his wishes to our health." Pippin pointed out.

"Aragorn, right?" '_Strider? Oh yeah, he was a Ranger.' _Harry looked back at the doorway, as if expecting the man to walk by at any moment and remarked, "The people of Minas Tirith are in awe at his return. They called him 'Elfstone' after the green brooch that I have never seen him without." A servant came in with a tray, "There's the feast fit for five kings, Merry." The Halfling's expression brightened: six separate dishes of fantastical meals and a large goblet of mead.

"Come Merry and eat till our stomachs cannot take anymore." Pippin cajoled, "But let us eat quietly enough so we might even be able to hear Legolas's dulcet tones in the courtyard. Elven songs can raise a heart's spirit, I daresay. Join us Harry as we Hobbits always enjoy company!"

oOoOo

His sixth sense ran over his skin in the form of goose bumps before any signs of danger were present. &_Wise One, the winged-serpent is close.& _Arwen hissed weakly, flicking her tongue at the air. Suddenly, an innocent midnight stroll changed into a dangerous patrol.

No window was a light, nor was any torches or lanterns at such a time but the full moon was more than kind enough to provide ample vision. &_Where?& _But the answer wasn't needed as immediately after, a black shadow soundlessly passed above them and over the buildings. The shadow's wind brushed over his hair and expanded to reveal an impressive set of leathery wings and a long tail, characteristic of a Fell beast.

Harry cursed and broke into a run, determined to catch up to the creature. Ran through a pebbled alley and vaulted over a pile of rubble that hasn't been cleared away; up a set of stairs and along the edge, he leaped onto the wall and peered over. Below him were Aragorn and the Fell Beast, eyeing one another apprehensively, charging tension between them and they were very close to fighting. The bystander wondered why they didn't already. Aragorn had his sword out and was poised to strike, his lips were moving but he couldn't be heard. What was he saying? The Serpent shook its head disdainfully and slowly crept forward. The city slept.

In a split second decision, he shot a fireball at the creature, which stumbled forward at his power, shrieking in pain, and spun around. Its back was singed but there wasn't any internal damage. Black eyes raked over his figure in speculation. &_That did not hurt much._& Harry gulped as the Fell Beast's mouth curled in a twisted smile, its eyes of fire glittering in the darkness, &_Snake-Speaker. Can you sense my master, Sauron the Great, within me? He is anxious to meet you and…& The_ beast twisted its head to give Aragorn another glance, &_the descendent of Isildur.&_

Emerald fire swirled around the top of the grey staff in warning as he threatened, &_Leave before I make you.&_

The creature tossed its head back and screeched before flapping its leathery wings and rising into the air. &_He sees all.& _The dark windows of the city lighted as people woke from the noise. Weary, Aragorn tucked his sword back into his sheaf, nodded at Harry, and departed. Some sentry men arrived on the scene but were confused at the emptiness of the courtyard. Allowing the sentry to keep their confusion, Harry backed off from the edge nimbly and disappeared into the shadows.

oOoOo

"But how is this?" asked Éomer to the others. "All is vain, you say, if Sauron has the Ring. Why should he think it not to assail us, if we have it?"

The much welcomed, lit fireplace made the night warm and toasty and filled the silence with cracking wood and rising ashes. Everyone was on their feet except for Gimli, who was lounging on the throne, and Harry, who sat on the ground with his head tucked between his knees. '_Because Sauron knows that in the end, he'll have the Ring, he can wait. Like a predator in wait.' _Harry drew a line in the corner of the floor boards. Not clean enough.

"Sauron is not yet sure," said Gandalf, "and he has not built up his power by waiting until his enemies are secure, as we have done. Indeed it can be used only by one master alone, not by many; and he will look for a time of strife, ere one of the great among us makes himself master and puts down the others." Éomer drew in a sharp intake of breath. The wizened Istar stroked his beard in deep thought, "He is watching. He sees much and hears much. His Nazgûl are still abroad and they are his eyes. They passed over this field ere the sunrise, though few of the weary and sleeping were aware of him. He studies the signs: he studies the Sword that robbed him of his treasure re-made and the King who wields it and he realizes; the winds of fortune in our favor, and the defeat unlooked- for of his first assault; the fall of his great Captain."

'_By a woman and a Hobbit.'_ Harry thought smugly as he picked up a small dust bunny from the ground and flicked it into the fire and watched it pop, '_It is concluded that prophecies are moot point.'_

"But how do you know that he hasn't gotten the Ring now? The darkness is deepening." Legolas murmured, leaning casually back with his arms crossed. Fair hair covered most of his distressed features and the shadows hid the rest.

Gandalf paused and locked eyes with the younger Istar and a silent message connect between them. They both nodded as one. "Frodo has passed beyond my sight. The Ring has eluded Harry's vision since the Battle of Pelennor Fields."

"If the Ring is in Sauron's hands, we would know of it." Aragorn paced to and fro.

"It's only a matter of time," Mithrandir clasped his hands together, "He has suffered a defeat, but behind the walls, our enemy is regrouping." Éomer furrowed his brow as he stared at the floorboards, pondering.

Sitting inelegantly on a seat fit for a king, Gimli puffed on his pipe and gruffly declared, "Let him stay there. Let them rot! Why should we care?"

The elder Istar turned, "Because ten thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom." His eyes temporarily lost focus and he whispered regretfully, "I've sent him to his death."

"There's still hope," Aragorn's voice rang in the council room, "We cannot achieve victory by arms, but by arms we can give the Ring-bearer his only chance, frail though it be." He punched his left hand with his right fist, "We must push Sauron to his last throw. We must call out his hidden strength, so that he shall empty his land. We must march out to meet him at once. We must make ourselves the bait, though his jaws should close on us."

"A diversion." The elf's eyes glowed in understanding.

Aragorn nodded, "He will take the bait, in hope and in greed, for he will think that in such rashness he sees the pride of the new Ringlord: and he will say: 'So! He pushes out his neck too soon and too far. Let him come on, and behold I will have him in a trap from which he cannot escape. There I will crush him, and what he has taken in his insolence shall be mine forever.' He had seen me and he had beheld the Sword of Elendil. And unknowing, he will give Frodo safe passage through the Plains of Gorgoroth." Harry felt a corner of his mouth twitch. It was crazy enough, but for the destruction of the Ring, they would do anything.

Gimli chuckled and raised his pipe, "Certainty of death. Small chance of success. Well, what are we waiting for? Gather up all our warworthy men and let us march!"

oOoOo

Night, Dawn, Morning: as soon as the provisions were packed, men began to saddle up and bid good bye and kiss their families and sweethearts. The women weren't too happy with the departure and they excluded an atmosphere of pure woman-guilt that silently shrieked, "How could you?" more lighthearted than what many expected; in an anger that reminded Harry of Molly Weasley and Mr. Weasley's stitches. Fond memory- that one. People hustled about, eager to be on their way, and the citizens of Minas Tirith, once again, watched their soldiers depart from the high walls. Harry blew into the Gondor Horn along with all the sounding trumpets that saw to their exodus. Petals floated down seemly from the skies and it smelled of spring. The army led by Aragorn marched out to the East to the Black Gates of Mordor. Sounds of armor knocking on armor and shields on spears and swords overrode any feeble attempt at conversation.

Harry sat on Hedwig's back with his staff parallel to the ground repeating Gimli's words, "Certainty of death. Small chance of success. Nothing to worry about, of course. Not going to be outnumbered or decimated, or maybe we will, but this is for the good of the Ring-Bearer. The entirety of Sauron's enemy will be meeting us. Easy passage to Mount Doom. Easy passage to Mount Doom." Harry repeated to himself. He then froze.

Another vision: A dark haired Hobbit with haunted eyes, carrying a weight, an unspeakable burden around his neck. That Ring, the One Ring calls for its master…

Ahead were the imposing Black Gates, thick and tall and curse-driven; the many spikes that pierced out from the top only added to its intimidation. The army stopped meters back from the entrance and stood, unsure what should be the next action. Aragorn, Mithrandir, Éomer, Legolas, and Gimli rode forward, unopposed. On the ground, Harry hesitantly guided Hedwig some distance behind Pippin and Merry who had stayed behind with the men. "Let the Lord of the Black Lands come forth!" It was surprising how Strider's voice easily echoed off the Gate.

The Gate creaked open revealing a lone rider in full armor, but Harry's view was partially blocked and he couldn't see the face. Their receiver talked in a sibilant hiss that was like the Ring's whispers, "My master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome. Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me? Not thou at least!"

"Where such laws hold," chided Gandalf fearlessly, "it is also the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence."

"So!" said the Messenger, rounding accusingly on the wizard, "Then thou art the spokesperson, Grey Beard? We've heard of thou. Famed for his wanderings, hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? But this time thou have stuck its nose too far. I have tokens I was bidden to show thee, if thou had dared to come." The servant of Sauron pulled out something and threw it to Mithrandir.

Unable to see any of the party's faces or the object in question, Harry craned his neck but still he was unable to see. He got a good hint to what it was when Pippin choked and cried with grief, "Frodo!"

"Another imp of yours, Gandalf? Sauron does not love spies." After laughing wickedly, the Messenger sneered, "It is a game to see how much suffering a Halfling can endure and the results pleased us all greatly." Pippin gave a harsh sob.

"What are your terms?" Gandalf asked steadily.

"These are the terms. Your rabble shall withdraw and all shall leave the lands West of Anduin to the Misty Mountains and the Gap of Rohan to Mordor's hands." Aragorn urged his horse ahead and advanced ever closer. "Ahh, what is this? Isildur's heir?" A short pause, sounds of a sword being drawn, "It takes more to make a king than a broken elvish blade."

Aragorn struck fast as lightning. The Messenger's head fell to the ground, giving everyone a good glimpse at its enlarged mouth in a helmet and the horrid, jaundiced teeth. Some soldiers in the back twitched at the sight. Most stared in astonishment as the head and helmet combination rolled once more before coming to a stop, facing the skies. Black blood seeped into the soil. "I guess that concludes negotiations," Gimli grunted and hefted his axe.

"I do not believe it." Aragorn addressed the Company and glared at the offending object, "I will not." An orange glow descended upon the entire alliance of men. Harry shivered under the feeling of malicious intent. The Eye of Sauron was upon them and the Black Gates of Mordor opened.

oOoOo

Behind the man, their leader, were the rolling drums and the leaping fires and from there, streamed a great host as swiftly as swirling waters when a sluice is lifted. But the servants of Sauron marched remarkably slow considering the home field advantage, painstakingly slow, as if trying to draw out the most pleasure from the experience of easy killings. Undaunted, Aragorn rode back to the army and he delivered the following speech.

"Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me." Harry casted a nervous glance as the Mordor army continued to close them in. An Orc mockingly licked its chops in his direction.

Aragorn, paying no heed, continued with force, "A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!" Through helmets and eye slits, the warriors looked up at this figure in awe, crowned by the light behind him, it magnified his presence. Aragorn drew his sword; his men drew their swords. "By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you, Stand!" The Orcs were moving around them at all sides with drums and jeers till there was no escape. "Men of the West!" The swords pointed to the clouds and the skies and a great shout rang among warriors of the King.

They were trapped and all about the grey mounds where they stood, forces ten times and more than ten times their match would ring them in a sea of enemies. The glow of the Eye still shined down on them. Harry's hand nervously twitched over his staff, '_Look on the bright side, Sauron has taken the bait, at least. The Ring-bearer better make the best of it.' _He whispered to his mount, "Courage for us, Hedwig. Have courage."

Turning around, the King of Gondor looked ahead at his foes, hesitated, and looked back. "For Frodo," he said serenely. Then he rushed forward with a great battle cry and everybody followed.

oOoOo

Valiant. Bloodshed. Fury. Steel clanged against steel and other war-noises in general. The first wave of assault drew the men back, but then they gave pressure and pushed and pushed. Harry unleashed another fireball at the repeated charge, soaring over the Company and then aimed another three, throwing Orcs into the air, burning with green fire. Another fire, more burning Orcs, but they didn't dodge his attacks like they dodged the boulders catapulted from Minas Tirith in the last battle. Instead, for every dead Orc or Troll or whatever humanoid was out there, three more filled the gap, and they moved surprisingly fast. From his position, he could smell burning Orc-flesh very distinctly, bitter, like charred ash with too much added flavors.

From his position, he couldn't identify anybody too clearly due to the hazy smoke and distance. The spot of white was, his best guess, Mithrandir, but everyone else was up in the air. At least it was easy to differentiate allies with enemies: grey and black. Avoid grey, aim for black. The skies were grey… He shot another fireball and got the results he wanted. More Orcs poured in.

His sole goal was to create as much space as he could between the frontlines and Mordor's army and in that way, he'll create more time and more time for the Eye to be distracted, and hopefully, by amazing luck, they might all just get out of this alive. No, they will get out of this alive, even if he had to ferry every single wounded man with a blindside, large field levitation spell. Briefly, as he dodged a flying sword, he wondered why there weren't any archers, but chalked it up to arrogance by the enemy. Evil never changes.

Shrieks reached his ears from beyond the Black Gate. He could easily recognize them.

"They come," he shuddered and pulled up to meet the coming beasts, not bothering to count how many there were. '_Don't let them touch the people below. Occupy them in the air.'_

&_We meet again, Speaker.&_ As unison, the Fell Beasts twisted down. Mustering his forgotten Quidditch skills, Harry dodged their sharp jaws and barrel-rolled up. Hedwig screeched and tilted a wing, turning around to meet the creatures again. Blood splattered onto his face, the owl's claws dripped with them, he spat out downy feathers. He wondered the possibilities of the serpents sharing a common mind. He flung out two fireballs to clear the space ahead; they agilely dodged, so easily that he knew that the creatures were taunting him. This intricate dance, drawing blood drop by drop, degenerated on his side into a series of reaction based counter-attacks. It was too hard for him to think each strategic move forward and his plan went down to the basics: attack and put as much space as you can between.

One side was bound to fall and they both waited patiently for the other to give, to suddenly break formation or to lower their defenses, just an inch. He placed his hands on Hedwig's back, then a foot, and then, wobbling, another foot, then he let go. It was just like First Year Hogwarts; he stood on Hedwig's back. Behind were three beasts and front had one, determined to collide head-on, Harry waited, balancing precariously. The serpent was within reach; it opened its jaws and lunged with its claws….

And Harry jumped.

Arms out, legs bent back, his cloak fluttered in midair, like wings. The Grey Istar pointed his staff at the incoming attack: a great serpent of emerald fire erupted forth and lashed out immediately at three Fell Beasts behind, who recoiled and tried to shake the flames off. He twisted his staff around and the green serpent followed. The single Fell Beast flew under the fire and shot directly at him; Harry drew his sword and braced himself. He crashed into the Fell Beast's outstretched neck. Hedwig latched onto the claws of the other in challenge and didn't let go and both spiraled down. Harry swung blindly at the beast but his sword couldn't pierce…

His stomach plummeted as they accelerated down and down the three of them. Hedwig vainly tried to struggle free but the grip of the other didn't lessen. Down and down the ground came closer. Harry tightly closed his eyes and gripped onto rough scales, which way was up? Which was down? Sky, mountains, army, Fell Beast, sky, army, Hedwig, Fell Beast…

And then the Fell Beast let go and flung itself back. Not anticipating the move, Harry was thrown off straight into the air. Hedwig shot up under him and allowed him grabbed onto her reins as he climbed back up her. The screaming Fell Beast was fleeing away over the Black Gates and to Mordor… 'And speaking of Mordor…'

Harry watched in fascination as the Tower of Barad-dúr collapsed. He mentally slapped himself out of his stupor as the earth collapsed in Mordor and under the feet of its creatures, '_Frodo and Sam…_' With a nudge, he cleanly steered Hedwig into the black lands to find the Halflings.

oOoOo

Frodo imagined swirling cloud in the midst of towers and battlements, tall as hills, founded upon a mighty mountain-throne above immeasurable pits; great courts and dungeons, eyeless prisons sheer as cliffs, and gaping gates of steel and adamant: and then all past. He croaked and sucked in dry air between his cracked lips and swollen tongue. Towers fell and mountains slid; walls crumbled and melted, crashing down; vast spires of smoke and spouting steams went billowing up, up, until they toppled like an overwhelming wave and crashed into a deafening crash and roar. That was Mordor and he was in the middle of it. The earth heaved and cracked and down came the roaring of black rain and then, all stopped.

The One Ring had damaged a fundamental part of him, as a farewell gift. He was fading, he knew that from deep into the aches of his bones and to his very being; the burden of the Ring was gone but he was still so tired. His hand was enveloped in Sam's and they lie like this, two black figures on a black rock, surrounded in moving fire. He could feel the heat that flowed down the mountain that crept through the boulder that he sat on with Sam and into his skin. It was comforting; it felt like the sun's warmth from the Shire, gardens and flowers. His pain lifted from him, drained out with his exhaustion, and he wanted to sleep badly.

The Shire. How long has it been since he's seen all that he loved, the green fields, the Bradywine River, the Party Tree, Gandalf's fireworks, the feeling of belonging that originates from one's household. "Home…" absolutely spent, Frodo sighed. Time drained out of him and left him as he sleeps. A burning rock from Mount Doom fell not too far away. The earth crumbled into fire and through it all, he refused to open his eyes; his paradise of all that he had ever wished for was in his mind.

Softly but getting louder: sounds of the flapping of wings, not entirely clear among the quaking earth but distinct, like water in the desert mountains. The beat of pressed air was slow but each time; they were nearer till he could feel a faint breeze on his hot skin. An owl hooted and a familiar voice said, "There they are."

The sounds of moving wind grew closer and closer, a presence above him. The Hobbit had no strength to open his eyes, much less protest when something, a large claw, grasped around his limp body. He began to rise and away from the heat. "Rest Halflings. It's over."

"Master Frodo?" From his side came a hoarse whisper.

"Dear Sam? Harry? I'm here." Frodo whispered back with closed eyes, "I'm here."

oOoOo

Time heals all wounds. Time healed cuts and stabs, nearly fatal injuries and psychological beatings. Time created love and laughter, reunion, hugs, and tears. The darkness in the East had withdrawn and became non-existent, a shadow of its former horrific glory. Minas Tirith glowed like a young woman in the prime of her life, joyful and gay. Animosity was shoved back with reconciliation, hate with love. Time passed and the White City was prepared to welcome back its lost king of Gondor.

The city stood and held their collective breaths at the coronation. The entire world waited on the top level of Minas Tirith, close enough to touch the heavens. In the shade at the top step of the stairs, Harry stood on the left side of the Steward and Gandalf stood at the right as the two Istari that hailed the coming of the King. Hedwig shuffled uncomfortably, off weight due to the cast on her left wing. Arwen attempted to balance the poor bird by settling on her right wing, but it only served as a hilarious sight. Harry consoled both of them with pats on their heads as he surveyed everyone below. Flagships displayed each invited group to this historic ceremony. There were soldiers and common workers and nobles, men and women and children, Dwarves and Elves and Men and Hobbits.

The Ranger of the North known as Strider and Aragorn, knelt at the foot of the Steward with his head bent. His breastplate has been shined, his hair trimmed, his clothes were new; he looked presentable. The Steward stepped into the light. Anticipation rippled through everybody in waves. Before the throne and the audience, wordlessly Faramir presented the gleaming silver crown to the crowd, and gently, slowly, lowered it onto the head of the King of Gondor.

And it's finished. Aragorn looked up as the Steward proclaimed. "Now come the days of the King. May they be blessed." The crowned man looked at Gandalf who nodded back with twinkling eyes and then to Harry who winked in encouragement.

Slowly Aragorn stood and turned, resting his eyes upon all that beheld him honorable, brave, valiant, noble, and majestic. He opened his arms out to embrace his people, "This day does not belong to one day but to all. Let us together rebuild this world that we may share in the days of peace."

The crowd roared.

oOoOo

"Young Istar."

Two days since he's camped here, Harry Potter looked up at the familiar rumble, not that trees could rumble, Earth rumbles, but trees achieved a whistle mixed with creaking limbs of the joints of an old man. Treading through the Forest of Fanghorn, even if he had been here before, years and years ago, was not an easy feat. Wild undergrowth and giant roots hindered his every step the moment he entered the dark woods. Why did he come again? Oh right, Ouroburos. This is where he had started, cold, helpless, young and naïve… very, very naïve.

These adventures changed him, like initiation rites back at his old world: from a boy to a man. So yes, he was proud of these changes. And after all these years, he wanted to pay tribute to the Forest, maybe find his savior and thank him.

Years and years had passed and he still recognized the living tree, '_Ent'_ he corrected mentally, which hasn't changed a leaf, twig, or bark since Harry had last seen him. "Hello, Treebeard." Harry stepped back unsurely, "That's your name?"

"Aahhhh. Yes." The Ent stepped to the side past two thick trunks and the ground trembled. Curious, Harry followed. Analyzing his memories, the Istar never realized how slow trees spoke. It was pretty unique and it encouraged him to also draw out his vowels and consonants.

"I want to thank you for everything." He walked side by side the Ent in companionship, hopping over logs and siding around bushes as he kept up with the giant.

"Hrmm." Harry mentally categorized it as an Ent-sound, "You were a stranger to this land, that much clear. But we Ents could hear the wishes of these ancient trees. Powerful little one, you are." Some falling leaves the color of his eyes tangled into his hair, Harry looked around to see if there were more Ents nearby but the forest was too thick and dark. His staff served as a blind man's walking stick, prodding the ground ahead of him lest he tripped. Treebeard intoned, "Eons past, before the elves taught us the spoken language, before my brethren learned to walk, we communicate in sounds. You had the ability to wield it effectively, even, I see, without the instrument."

The Istar leaped onto a log and walked across a small stream, his shoes making squishing sounds in the moss. He asked, "Can you still hear it now?"

"Yes, little one, as long as the music is still in this world, we can rejoice in it."

oOoOo

Normality is such a strange concept to grasp, it's mutable and relative to the original life that one comes from. Did it define boring or the beginning? Once again, he was reminded of the Ouroburos, a snake biting its tale. Fate is a cycle. Normal life returned, at least as normal as he could make it and that was stretching it to considerable lengths. The people of Rowin had walked back to the familiar lake and mountains and there wasn't anything there. Nature managed to swallow most evidence of human life save for the high pile of black, rotting remains of wood: ghosts of humble houses. Normality returned.

Imiram wasn't the same, she could still maintain the household but there were still signs of trauma in her personality. She aged in every physical and nonphysical way. A year ago, she was able to immerse herself in work and now, she needed rest between each chore. She only admitted to the fact when Harry saw her passed out from fatigue, face down in the outdoor makeshift kitchen, and freaked. She wasn't the same, but in reality, nobody in the town was after the war. A quarter of their numbers were gone. But the villagers had come back and they had started from scratch. All was normal.

Rowin restored itself by the hands, labor and toil of its people. And between working and watching over his charges and caring for his familiars, at night, he scrutinized the heavens and imagined happenings in his own realm that held his home but was not home anymore.

Harry had tried his best to continue his duties as an older brother figure to Carin and Atricia by giving those lessons in reading and writing. He was still hopeless with any weapon of steel. The kids were growing up into a fine lady and gent, stronger, independent. They learned the ways of the world and they'll use their abilities to etch niches into the stonework called life. One day, Harry will have to let them go. He'll have to let the family go.

More than two years passed. The rumor is that the Third Age is ending and soon will begin the Age of Man. Today was a rare afternoon where there was no work for him to do around the streets; he stared up at the sky and identified clouds that held a smidgen resemblance to his familiars. He drifted off, dreaming of clouds that looked like Fell Beasts being chased by a giant owl, '_One day, I'll have to let the village go._'

The tall yellow-green grasses tickled his face with their rough surfaces as the wind swayed them. The sun burned his front but the soil cooled his back. He hummed a song from Aragorn's coronation, "Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta." He wondered what it meant.

A horse neighed and cantered to where he lazed about. A hoof nudged his side till he groaned and cracked his eyes open. A familiar figure dressed in white blocked out the sun that outlined his silhouette. Harry sat up on his elbows and pinched himself. The pain told him that this wasn't a dream. Shadowfax proudly tossed his head. Gandalf said, "It's time, Harry."

Protest and acceptance warred in him for a moment. He knew this was coming; the knowledge had been imparted to him through the grey staff that he kept at his side. Hedwig landed on Harry's shoulder and hooted. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "So soon?"

oOoOo

Thus the beginning of another tale that offers more characters, heroes and villains, to come and go. Harry stood behind an aged Hobbit named Bilbo, taking in the scenery of the port called the Grey Havens, the ship he will set upon, and the endless seas that lead to Valinor. It is a sunset, a breathtaking one; the colors of the waters invited him with friendly waves and joyful singing. The old Hobbit was accompanied by Frodo and Sam where they stand before three elves, Elrond, Celeborn, and Galadriel who all dressed in white garbs. They stood tall and noble with grace than man could only envy.

Galadriel spoke first, her features enhanced by her happiness, "The power of the three rings is ended. The time has come for the Dominion of Men."

Elrond whispered, "I Aear can vên na mar," in a comforting low tone that brought a shiver down Harry's back, and opened his arms. Chuckling to himself in happiness and ready for another adventure, Bilbo walked forward and boarded the ship with the dark haired elf's gentle guidance. Celeborn followed. Galadriel smiled knowingly to Frodo before she too, boarded.

Harry stepped forward, albeit reluctantly. He quickly turned around before giving each Hobbit a tearful hug in turn, "I'll miss all of you so much." He murmured into Pippin's hair as he tightly hugged the Hobbit whom he had grown most close to.

Then he let go and with Hedwig on his shoulder and Arwen resting around his neck, he followed Galadriel who waited for him on the steps. With a hand on his back, like a mother he never had, she ushered him on board.

oOoOo

The ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a starry night, one smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water.

"What do you suppose is out there?" Frodo asked, his cheek resting on the cool wood of the boat.

"It is what we all have dreamed of." Harry looked down at the Hobbit and smiled kindly, "The grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and rolling back, allowing us to behold the white shores and beyond them, a far green country under a swift sunrise."


End file.
